


Unraveled

by Makoyi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Amnesia, Character Bashing, Dark is not Evil, Families of Choice, Love Potion/Spell, Multi, NaNoWriMo, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Recovery, Temporal Paradox, Time Travel, Trust, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 132,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makoyi/pseuds/Makoyi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In PoA, Harry broke a cardinal rule of time travel. As years passed and the consequences of it rippled out from that point, time grew increasingly unstable until, as Harry realized he was facing death, continuity broke and time unraveled around him. Redo. PTSD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back Again

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on ff.net under a different pseudonym with a different title. I took it down for revisions (of which there've been a lot) and decided I'd put it up here instead.
> 
> There is [cover art for this fic](http://i-makoyi.tumblr.com/post/103090391221/cover-art-for-my-own-fic-unraveled-a-harry) on my tumbr.

“You can’t change time.” He’d known that rule, but he hadn’t listened. This particular rule, like the one that says, “You will not give a schoolgirl a device capable of ripping apart the fabric of reality,” exists for a reason. It is not because it is impossible to do. If it was, there would be no need for the rule. No, it is because you _can_ change time, but it is very possible that the continuity of time to follow will not be able to cope.

Towards the end of Harry Potter’s third year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, his friend, Hermione Granger, took him back in time and while there, Harry created a paradox by saving himself (and Sirius Black) from the dementors.

It should not have happened.

It _could not_ have happened.

It _appeared to have happened_ for a little while, but the farther it got from that point, the more unstable time got... until, as 17-year-old Harry Potter was walking through the Forbidden Forest to sacrifice his life, time finally just fell apart around him.

One minute, his parents and Remus and Sirius were there and then abruptly, they weren’t. There was a pressure at his back, as if several enemies were lurking behind him. He spun fearfully, looking, listening, but no one was there, so he fumbled with the ring, trying to get his family back, and made himself ignore the feeling. Then the rushing sound started, quietly at first but growing quickly until it pressed in on his ears painfully. He clenched his fists harder, nails digging into his palms around the snitch and the ring, holding on as if to a lifeline. And then he felt a jerk as if someone had given the world a tug beneath him and sent him tumbling onto his arse. Only he was still upright, in so far as there was an upright anymore, and he was standing in a whirl of color and a riot of sound like someone hitting rewind on a playing cassette. Harry Potter stood wide-eyed and very, very still as _everything_ moved around him.

*****

The snitch was gone, and the ring too. That was the first thing he noticed when the world stopped moving around him. He was holding his wand. He wasn’t in the forest anymore. He was on the school grounds and Hermione was frantically trying to get his attention. But it wasn’t the Hermione he knew. How old was she?  She looked about 13, maybe 14. Third year. What did she want?  Oh. There were two wounded. Ron and Snape?  But... no time for the why. Growling. Snarling. His mind slowly assimilated that too. Then, sensing danger, the part of him that the last year of the war had honed took control.

“Get them inside the castle, Hermione!” he ordered.

The sounds of vicious animal combat had stopped and now there was just faint whimpering. He was already turning to head towards it when Hermione, little Hermione, stopped him.

“Where are you going?” she asked, taking a step to follow him.

He spun around and pinned her with a severe stare. His Hermione ought to know better than to second guess him in a situation like this... whatever this was. It felt real, so he was acting as if it was, just in case. But beyond that, he wasn’t sure yet.

“Get them to safety!” Harry snapped.

“But Harry, you can’t—” she protested, still moving to follow him.

_Merlin save me from children!_   He thought, growling and he spat, “You will not leave two unconscious comrades out in the open!  Do it!  Go now!”

The tone worked. She went white but scurried off to take the levitating victims the last thirty meters to the castle where all three of them would be safe. As she fled, Harry could see a gold chain just peeking out from under her collar at the back of her neck, glowing unnaturally bright against the cold silver of moonlight and suddenly he recognized this. They’d changed history and now... had it un-changed?

Harry turned and ran. The whole exchange with Hermione had taken too long. Already he could hear that the whimpering had stopped. He tore across the grounds, heading in the direction the noise had come from. He crested the hill and saw, on the shore of the lake, the human form of Sirius Black falling to the ground, limp, as easily twenty or more dementors bore down on him. Harry shivered. He hated dementors. He’d grown good at the Patronus Charm — he’d had to — but the foul creatures were still his boggart. But Sirius was in trouble and if the world had just un-changed, Harry — the Harry right now — was his only chance because there would be no Harry of three hours from now waiting in the bushes to save him. He charged.

As Harry ran down the hill, the dementors turned — all but the one who now held Sirius by the front of his ragged shirt.

“Expecto Patronum!” Harry shouted. A thick, white, shapeless mist billowed out of the tip of his wand and he had a moment to reflect that perhaps simply assuming the spell would work when faced with so many foul beasts was not the best course of action mid-charge. And now he was surrounded by hungry dementors closing in.

“Expecto Patronum!  Expecto Patronum!  Expecto Patronum!” he cast frantically, but there were too many of them sucking at all his happiness and he was struggling to grab hold of a good memory. The sounds of war echoed in his ears, someone was screaming and crying, there was snarling and screeching and thrashing, and his mother pleading for his life. He fell to his knees but defiantly kept his wand arm outstretched. “Expecto Patronum,” he whispered weakly to no effect. He slumped to the ground in slow motion as his vision tunneled. His last thought as the fog of horrible memories and cold despair closed in was that at least he would be unconscious when it happened.

*****

Thwack!  The back of Harry’s head impacted on the hard rock of the lake shore. The hood-less dementor dropped him and straightened looking quite satisfied. And then his prey moved and it did so rather faster and more coherently than the recently-Kissed were usually capable of.

“Unnghh!” Harry moaned.

Three dementors leapt back from where they had floated as they’d watched their leader feast. Several at the back of the crowd drifted away at speed, bumping into and scrabbling at each other in the kind of frantic retreat that might have put Harry in mind of humans in a zombie flick, if he’d ever been allowed to watch zombie movies, that is.

“Arrgh!” Harry screeched. His mouth tasted like death, his lips were throbbing painfully, his muscles felt all mushy, and his head was bleeding where the dementor had dropped him.

The dementor saw him move and came in close again, hesitantly, uncertain what had happened. It reached for him again and Harry feared he was really in for it this time. But at the last moment, two Patroni, a cat and a fox, charged in among the remaining dementors. Hermione must have got help!  He was dropped again as the rest of the dementors dispersed and fled.

The sources of the patroni, Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall, both wearing their dressing gowns, reached Harry as he crawled to Sirius’s side. They didn’t understand. Professor McGonagall needlessly Stunned Sirius and Madam Pomfrey took Harry bodily around the shoulders and tried to pull him away.

“No!” Harry fought to get to his godfather to do something.

“Mr Potter, that’s Sirius Black,” Madam Pomfrey hissed.

“He’s innocent!  Pettigrew framed him!”

“Merlin, Mordred, and Arthur!” Madam Pomfrey swore. She’d finally seen Harry’s lips.

Professor McGonagall looked up from hurriedly conjuring a levitating stretcher under Sirius’ body and binding him to it securely, saw Harry’s lips and gasped.

Before Harry knew what was happening, a stretcher had been conjured beneath him and was slowly rising, lifting him off the ground.

“You just lay down, Mr Potter. We’ve got to get inside quickly now,” Madam Pomfrey told him.

The pain of his head wound rammed him punishingly, breaking through the fading adrenaline high. He laid down on his side and tried hard not to sick up. The women didn’t waste any time after that in getting back to the safety of the castle. Harry watched the corridors pass by through half-lidded eyes, trying unsuccessfully to block out the pain again as they went. In the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey set him down on a clean bed, caused the stretcher to disappear, and hurried around the ward collecting the supplies she would need to deal with his wounds.

Professor McGonagall had taken Sirius elsewhere. It wasn’t surprising really — Sirius was beyond help now. Ron’s freckled foot was just sticking out of a cast in one of the beds halfway down the ward, mostly hidden behind a screen. Madam Pomfrey must have splinted it to give her potion time to heal the bad break. Two beds closer, the sheets were mussed and the pillow was out of place. It seemed that Snape had already regained consciousness and left. The rest of the ward was empty.

Madam Pomfrey returned and quickly magically cleaned and healed the cut on his head, tested him for concussion then treated him for one, and at last passed him a pain potion. She passed him a bar of chocolate, once the potions had taken effect and he felt a bit better. He was allowed to carefully sit up and take off his bloody robe and shirt and cast a charm to clean his mouth of the absolutely horrid taste that had been tormenting him since the Kiss.

Madam Pomfrey cast a strong cleaning spell over his skin that got rid of the worst of the blood but did nothing for the cold, slimy feeling that remained from the dementors. Then she left him to dispose of the bloody clothing and fetch a hospital robe for Harry. She only had to cross the ward but before she’d even returned, Harry, body exhausted from what he’d been through and further taxed by the healing, fell asleep, chocolate barely half finished. She used a Switching Spell to trade his trousers for the gown and then manually slipped each of his arms into the sleeves and tied the strings at the back of the neck. He didn’t seem to notice.

It wasn’t much later that he woke up, perhaps no more than half an hour. He was still tired, but his subconscious mind had been working fervently trying to make sense of all this and when it finally did, it roused him to inform him of its findings. It had recalled everything he knew about time and time travel, his memories from the moments before the un-changing, and even large parts of the battle in the Department of Mysteries where he’d seen all sorts of time and Sight artifacts. He’d awoken convinced that his interpretation of events was correct. He’d created a paradox that had strained the continuity of time, it had broken and time had unraveled around him.

But that wasn’t what worried him. That problem had a fairly simple answer: don’t use Hermione’s Time Turner. What did worry him was that those memories that were examined while he’d slept were fading quickly, fleeting like a dream. In their place, he could now remember with clarity Remus, Sirius, and Peter in the Shrieking Shack convincing him of Sirius’ innocence, Peter’s escape, and the prophecy that warned that Peter would bring Voldemort back. These were the kinds of details he’d long forgotten. His mind was rearranging itself so the memories that ought to be recent in this time became so again and to do that, others had to move out of the way. Harry sat bolt upright, frantic with the need to commit his most important information about what he’d been through to paper before they faded away. Harry cast his eyes all through the still, silent ward looking for ink, quill, and parchment but spotted none.

“Bugger!” he cursed under his breath. He considered and discarded trying to go back to his dorm. He knew Madam Pomfrey had spells to tell her if anyone passed through those doors. He’d never make a clean getaway. Then he had an idea. “Dobby!” he called softly. You didn’t need to speak very loudly for a house elf to know it was needed no matter where it was.

A tiny pop sounded just to Harry’s left and he turned to see familiar big eyes peering at him from a friendly green face. “Mr Harry Potter, sir, is needing Dobby?” the elf cheeped loudly in his own elfish version of a whisper.

Harry grinned broadly. It was so good to see Dobby alive. But there would be time for getting reacquainted later. Right now, he needed to write. “I need you to go to my trunk and get some money, then go to Diagon Alley and buy me a diary with protective spells... and a Self-Inking Quill while you’re there. I need them right away,” Harry explained. Then he realized that it was the middle of the night and groaned. “No, forget that. I think I have a Self-Inking Quill in my trunk. If I don’t, borrow one from Hermione. Then go to the seventh floor. There’s a room that doesn’t appear unless you walk by it three times thinking of what you need. Look for the paintings of... a castle under siege and... a ship in a storm; it’s between those. Check in there and see if you can find me an empty diary, or one with lots of blank pages.”

“Dobby is happily doing this, Mr Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said squeakily, still trying to whisper even as he bounced excitedly from foot to foot. He disappeared with a small pop leaving Harry to try not to think about anything in case it displaced important memories.

Just then, noise began to filter in from the corridor outside, providing a useful distraction. The doors opened and a crowd of people bustled noisily into the Hospital Wing. Minister Fudge was there with an auror bodyguard and an additional arrest detail to pick up Sirius’ body. Dumbledore was keeping pace beside the Minister while Snape and Hermione trailed behind. Hermione separated from the group as soon as they were in the ward, forced a tiny smile through her worry for Harry as she passed, and then slipped behind the screen around Ron’s bed with a last nervous glance at the Minister and his entourage.

“Mr Potter, awake, I see,” Minister Fudge proclaimed loudly.

Madam Pomfrey hurried out of her office looking outraged and tried to send them all away but the Minister waved a hand at her dismissively and took the seat beside Harry’s bed and Professor Dumbledore took Madam Pomfrey aside for a quick whispered word that made her bristle but apparently left her no choice but to allow the visit.

Harry chose to accept the distraction with only minor irritation and greeted the Minister only a bit curtly. “Minister.”

“You’ve had a very trying night, from what I hear,” Fudge began. “This whole nasty business with Black... I’m afraid the Ministry owes you a very sincere apology, Mr Potter.”

Harry bit back a snarky remark about Fudge’s questionable ability to be sincere. In this moment, it served his purposes to apply himself to a difficult task like thinking politically. So instead, he replied, “I appreciate that, Minister, but I’ve had a horrible night. Do you think we could discuss this another time?  It could be good for me to be seen getting along with the Ministry.” He knew Scrimgeour, the only Minister he had any real political experience with, would have appreciated that and he assumed that this Fudge, before Harry’s public image had taken a beating under Rita Skeeter’s quill, would appreciate it too.

He realized too late, when Fudge’s face flashed surprise, then calculation, then resignation, that the simple remark could be taken another way. It might seem, to someone who dealt in bribes and favors as much as Fudge, that Harry was suggesting that he’d be looking for reasons that lambasting the Ministry over, well, whatever story Fudge chose to believe about what had happened, would be unnecessary.

_Well, maybe I am_ , Harry thought. _Maybe if I’m careful, this time I’ll avoid having the Ministry out to ruin me._

“Indeed, well, I shall look forward to it,” the Minister said stiffly, no doubt already beginning a running tab in his head of what Harry might require to play nicely with his administration over this nasty business. Then he forced a jovial look and he turned back to Dumbledore. “Well, Mr Potter does seem well. And now I do believe we should see to the transfer of the prisoner. It is quite late, after all, and I’m sure we all have beds to return to. I know I do. Dawlish, Williamson.”

The two aurors looked to Professor Snape who seemed eager to show them the way to Sirius’ soulless body. The whole group from the Ministry marched out of the ward, the Minister merely nodding a farewell to Dumbledore who lingered, clearly with other business on his mind.

The Headmaster closed the doors behind them and then turned back to Harry.

Hermione reappeared from behind the screen. Knowing Madam Pomfrey’s method of treating broken bones, Harry was fairly sure that Ron was sleeping soundly under the influence of a very strong Sleeping Potion to ensure he didn’t jostle the bones and cause them to heal crookedly. He’d probably be out for eight hours or more, and even the noise of Harry’s visitors wouldn’t have roused him.

Dumbledore took the seat the Minister had so recently vacated. “Ms Granger, do join us,” he said. Hermione hurried over to stand on the opposite side of Harry’s bed.

“At this very moment, the aurors and the Minister are on their way to the West Tower where Sirius Black is being kept. They will very likely execute him for his crimes,” Dumbledore said gravely.

Hermione gasped, “But he’s innocent!”

“He has not acted like an innocent man,” Dumbledore replied. “Going on the run, attacking Gryffindor’s guardian portrait, and attempting to kidnap Harry here which is what I’m sure Minister Fudge believes happened tonight.”

“But that’s not what happened!  Isn’t there anything you can do?” Hermione pleaded.

Harry knew where this was going and it made him angry. Hermione was a third-year bookworm and Harry was in the hospital wing with a concussion. In what world were they just the people to send gallivanting off through time to steal the body of someone in Sirius’ condition?

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said through gritted teeth, interrupting whatever choice words Dumbledore had been about to profess. “Sirius is gone. He was Kissed.”

“That may not be true. Clearly something wonderful was at work tonight since you, Harry, survived the same. There is nothing I can do to prevent the Ministry taking Sirius away but if there was a way the two of you could make it to the tower before the Minister and get Sirius out without anyone being the wiser, I can make sure that the very best healers see to him,” Dumbledore said.

Harry scoffed. Had that sort of thing really worked on him as a kid?  He thought rather embarrassingly that it must have considering some of the trouble he’d got up to. Unicorns and a midnight detention, in particular, came to mind. Hmm. He’d forgotten that one as the years had passed.

“But we couldn’t get to him first. Surely, the Minister is nearly there already,” Hermione said, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

Harry wanted to roll his eyes at his young friend.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Alas, I fear you are right. If only we had more time.”

Harry could almost see the cartoon light bulb pop into existence shining brightly over Hermione’s head. “Oh,” she said, grinning and reaching for the chain around her neck.

Dumbledore smiled at her and quickly began explaining his plan. “Now, pay attention,” said Dumbledore, speaking slowly and very clearly. “Sirius is locked on the seventh floor of the West Tower. If all goes well, you will be able to save more than one innocent life tonight. But remember this, both of you: you must not be seen. Ms Granger, you know the law... you know what is at stake.”

“No,” Harry interrupted.

Dumbledore and Hermione both turned to look at him with twin expressions of disappointment. “Harry, we have to save Sirius, and we can save Buckbeak too... that is what you meant, isn’t it, Headmaster?” Hermione pleaded.

“It is,” Dumbledore agreed, giving her an indulgent smile before turning back to Harry with a concerned look.

“We aren’t going,” Harry said firmly.

Hermione looked about to speak again but before she could, Dumbledore stood and frowned down at Harry.

“I can see your experience tonight has affected you, Harry. Perhaps, I was wrong to ask this of you so soon. I only thought that since time is of the essence... but no matter. I will leave you to recover, Harry. Ms Granger, I’ll see you back to your Tower.”

“I think I’ll stay with Harry,” she said, biting her lip nervously.

“Alright, but it’s very late, Ms Granger. Do not linger,” Dumbledore said, giving her a small smile.

No sooner had Dumbledore shut the door behind him than Hermione resumed her attempts to convince him. But slowly, the determined line of her mouth slipped and turned into a small, resigned pout.

“I just thought... Sirius said you could live with him,” Hermione said softly. She seemed sad for Harry’s loss of the future with his godfather that she imagined he could have had.

Harry recalled bitterly that even when Sirius had lived, his godfather had never taken him in. There’d been maybe four or six weeks spread over nearly two years when Harry had stayed in the same house as Sirius and for all of those, it had always seemed like it was the Weasley family he was staying with and Sirius was just hanging around like the family dog, even if it was his house and he only had paws some of the time.

“There’s nothing we can do, Hermione,” he said at last. “You can’t change time. What’s happened, happened. Sirius is worse than dead. Anything the Ministry can do now will only be a mercy.”

Hermione sighed and nodded, accepting the logic in Harry’s argument at last. Harry knew she wasn’t his 18-year-old Hermione, but he did have some memories of his third year back so he could now remember what she’d been like at this age. She was still rather too fond of rules and books and she didn’t think of herself as an adventurer. She was the brains, Ron was the muscle and he was the man who shouted “Charge!” He remembered, not really thinking those things, but simply knowing them in his third year.

But then, just for a fraction of a moment, Harry saw a look of defiance cross Hermione’s face and leapt to head that off at the start.

“You can’t change time, Hermione. Don’t even try. I know you don’t need me to go back, but I also know that you’re smart enough to realize that you shouldn’t go either. Promise me you won’t,” he said gravely.

Hermione blushed, caught in the act of plotting, looked ashamedly at the floor and nodded. “Okay.”

“Good,” Harry said, then added awkwardly, “I want you to be safe.” That was right, wasn’t it?  Wasn’t that how you justified things to children?

Hermione gave him a very small smile, still looking at the floor and tucked her Time Turner back under her robe.

“It’s late,” Harry said. “You should get some sleep.”

Hermione nodded. She whispered goodbye and left Harry alone in the quiet ward.


	2. Resolve

Harry was afraid to sleep. He didn’t want more of his memories rearranging themselves before he could write down what he needed to remember. “Where is Dobby?” he muttered under his breath as he lay back against his pillows with a tired sigh.

“Dobby is here, Mr Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said quietly from the corner, startling Harry quite badly.

“Oh, well, good,” Harry said awkwardly.

“Dobby is thinking you is wanting to write secrets so Dobby is keeping hidden while Mr Harry Potter’s friend is here.”

“Good, Dobby,” Harry said. “Were you able to get what I wanted?”

“Oh yes, Mr Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is having them right here,” Dobby squeaked quietly, holding out a diary and a stubby and battered Self-Inking Quill already shortened by a year’s worth of sharpening the tip.

Harry seized them, frenzied by his need to write and save the vital fleeting memories. He opened the diary expecting to see perhaps a dozen pages of the sort of silly teenage problems he ought to have had, wanted to have had, but instead he was often too busy being the Boy Who Lived. Instead, he saw that Dobby had found him a journal someone must have lost before they’d had a chance to use it. His hand hovered, quill poised over the page. But his mind was racing. So many thoughts were vying for his attention that it was hard to keep hold of any one long enough to form a coherent sentence about it. He needed something... he needed... he needed... he gathered all his will of mind. He had to do this. He hadn’t asked for this, but now that he had this chance, he would make the most of it.

 _This is important!_  he thought desperately. And that’s where the words started to come from, that place in his soul that knew what was at stake.

On that first page, he wrote:

> _I didn’t ask for this, but now that I have this chance,_
> 
> _I will make the most of it._
> 
> _I will rely on myself. I will look out for my friends._
> 
> _I will not be manipulated. I am Harry Potter, I am 17,_
> 
> _and these are the things I must remember._

Then he turned the page and from there, the memories he needed most formed up, fast and furious, and queued in his mind’s eye. He tried to prioritize, scratching out notes and charts and outlines of stories for what he considered the most important things to remember. He committed to paper the identity of each horcrux and where to find it and noted that the locket in the cave was false because of Sirius’ Death Eater brother, Regulus. He wrote quite a bit of why he should always trust Snape, even if sometimes all the evidence seemed to the contrary.

He warned himself about some of the things he’d learned from Snape as his most hated professor, the man who had really done more for him than anyone else, lay dying — and as he wrote, his opinion about one thing in particular changed. Whereas before, he had been walking to his death with meek acceptance that it was The Way It Had To Be, now he warned himself about what the future could bring if he wasn’t careful. He wrote about how he’d turned out to be just the sort of person who, not even 18 yet, walks calmly to his death at the hands of a sadistic madman. Now, he hated that.

And he was furious with Dumbledore for deciding that a child hero was just what his war really needed. What had he been thinking during Voldemort’s early attempts to rise again?  Was Dumbledore really that clueless or had it been a conscious decision to leave it to Harry as if it was good training… and the hero of the story never dies in training, right?

Harry was also furious with his parents and Sirius and Remus for that walk in the forest. They’d known exactly what he was considering and all they’d had to say was that dying is easy!  He was their son, their godson, their child’s godfather, for Merlin’s sake!  What kind of family were they anyways to do a thing like that?  Oh yeah, the kind that had Dursleys for relatives.

He lost himself in the work as he sorted the vital information from the details that he could do without because he didn’t know how much time he had to write. He wrote quickly and managed to get what he hoped was a complete outline of the bare facts that might prove useful in the future. He paused to shake the writing cramps out of his hand and look again at the clock. He’d been at this for nearly two hours. A sniffle in the corner made Harry jump. He hadn’t realized that Dobby had waited. Didn’t he have work around the castle to do?  Before, Harry had been pretty preoccupied, but this time when he looked at Dobby, he really saw him. He saw that Dobby had tried to fashion a vest and shorts out of the pillowcase he’d worn as a Malfoy elf and he had only the one true article of clothing, the sock on his left foot. Even more worryingly, he looked drawn and gaunt.

“Dobby, you look awful,” Harry gasped.

Dobby hung his head. “Dobby is not finding much work for a free elf. Wizards is saying, ‘Why pay Dobby when there is elves that work for free?’ ”

“But I thought you worked at Hogwarts,” Harry said, more to himself than anything as he wracked his brain trying to remember when Dobby had started working here. He couldn’t remember. Dobby looked at him with a hopeful expression. “Dobby is not thinking of Hogwarts.”

“Well you should definitely try. I think there must be work for you and the Headmaster seems like the sort of man who wouldn’t mind paying a free elf,” Harry said encouragingly.

“Oh, Dobby is hoping so. Dobby is finding Head Elf right away,” Dobby said, louder now than he had been before. He disappeared with quite a loud crack in his excitement.

Harry yawned and forced himself to turn back to his journal but he didn’t get much chance to work on it before Madam Pomfrey appeared, now in a clean nightgown, looking flustered. “You’re still awake?” she asked horrified. “I thought you’d gone to sleep over an hour ago!  Put that away this minute, Mr Potter. If you need a Sleeping Potion, I will gladly supply it but you must get some rest.”

Harry protested, knowing it would mess with his memories. He wanted to stay awake as long as possible trying to get more details down but then, very inopportunely, he yawned and Madam Pomfrey seized on it. Harry knew he had to give in. He could already feel his eyelids drooping as she drew his attention to the clock. 2:04am. He hated seeing more than one 2 o’clock per day and no matter how important he thought it was to stay up writing, his body was rebelling. He could only hope that he’d still have the important memories when he woke. He closed the quill into the book and slid it under his pillow beside his wand. He would have accepted Dreamless Sleep gratefully and maybe it would have helped his memories last a bit longer but he never got the chance as he was sound asleep before his head even hit the pillow and he didn’t wake up, no matter what happened on the ward, for many hours.

*****

Harry woke up slowly around ten o’clock in the morning and the first thing he did was sit up and open his journal. He could feel large swathes of his memories fading rapidly like normal dreams in the wake of the alarm clock. He did his best to jot down what he could remember of them but some of it made no sense at all, rather like his normal dreams in that way, and the rest lacked important context. He took some time to look back over his notes. The things they mentioned seemed familiar, like looking at an old photograph of oneself. There would be familiar details from the photo, but they failed to connect with other memories to complete a story. Or it would have been, had there been any photos of Harry’s childhood for him to compare it too.

He added a few things he remembered still but it became more difficult the more disjointed the memories got and wherever memories of his third year had slotted in to fill the gaps. He added the fact that 12 Grimmauld Place had made a very secure Order Headquarters. That sort of information could save lives and this time, Sirius wouldn’t be around to suggest its use. Of course, Harry considered, he also wouldn’t be around to own it, but perhaps they could sort of steal it, if they could put the Fidelius Charm on it before another Black could claim it. Writing this journal, Harry felt an unfamiliar sense of resolve fill him. Before, he’d been a kid fighting someone else’s war, following directions, responding to circumstances. Now he was grown and it was his war and he’d fight it his own way.

Soon, Madam Pomfrey appeared on her rounds. Harry closed the journal and tucked it under his pillow again. She checked on Ron first who still wasn’t ready to wake up, then she came over and inspected his healing head wound and lingered over his bruised lips.

“I’ll get you some balm, dear,” she said about the marks from the Kiss, “but you should eat something first. I’ll have a house elf bring up a tray from the kitchens.”

The elf she called turned out to be Dobby, now clad in three mismatched socks, one tall and one short layered together on his left foot, a tea cozy hat, a pair of children’s football shorts, and a tie. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Dobby must be thanking you very much, Harry Potter, sir,” he gushed. “Dobby is having a good job with Hogwarts now, with an allowance for clothes, a wage, and a day off.”

Harry smiled down at Dobby as he accepted the tray the little elf offered. It had small portions of all the usual Hogwarts breakfast fare and, tucked under a large pitcher of hot cocoa, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that Harry suspected Dobby had included unasked.

He thanked Dobby who then popped away to return to his first day of work. Harry took the paper out from under the pitcher to set it aside. He didn’t think very highly of the _Prophet_ so he hadn’t intended to read it, but as he held it, he caught his famous title in the front page headline. He held his breath as he unfolded the paper. _How bad will it be?_  he wondered.

“The Boy Who Lived Lives Again,” it proclaimed. Beneath that in slightly smaller type, it continued, “Escaped Mass-Murderer and Notorious Death Eater Sirius Black Kissed.” He rapidly skimmed the article for tenor and content. “...Black attempted to kidnap Harry Potter... intercepted by the dementors of Azkaban... frenzied by their pursuit, Kissed Black and then turned on Mr Potter... in another miracle or survival, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, survived the Kiss with his soul intact... recovering well... Black was returned to Azkaban where he lies in the Prison Hospital non-responsive but stable...” All in all, Harry supposed the article had been better than he’d feared, but he was used to the worst the Prophet could throw at him. Next to that, this article was downright compassionate.

Aside from the supposed kidnapping attempt, the details were very good, especially considering no one had asked him for them. He feared for a moment that Rita Skeeter was about in her animagus form passing information to this writer. He quickly added a note about her beetle form to his journal. But it was unlikely Rita Skeeter was actually involved in this case. She was vain enough that she wouldn’t have allowed such a prime story, if based significantly on information only she could acquire, to be published under any byline but her own. It must just be that the Minister or one of the aurors who’d come with him had assured the Prophet that he had survived with his soul intact, that his lips were noticeably bruised, and maybe filled in a few details of the night either gleaned from Hermione or made up with coincidental results.

When Madam Pomfrey returned a bit later with Bruise Balm to see the paper lying open on his bed while he finished eating, she mentioned that there was an enormous pile of Get Well cards somewhere in the castle from _Prophet_ readers. He doubted there would be Howlers from this article, and probably no racy photos or marriage proposals, but he might get a couple of offers of support against the Ministry. He didn’t need any of it. The House Elves could burn it all and he told her as much. She seemed worried by that, but forced a smile and inquired again about the progress of his recovery. “Is there any chance I could leave soon?” Harry ventured. “Only, I really need a bath. I just feel... slimy.”

The matron looked torn. There was no way she was going to release him this soon, Harry knew, but he didn’t think a bath was an unreasonable request, except for the fact that the Hospital Wing didn’t have bathtubs — showers, yes and also a basin for patients that needed to soak in potions, but neither was suitable in this case.

“Please,” he begged, clasping his hands together in a beseeching gesture.

“I suppose for you, Mr Potter, I can let you use the bath in my quarters provided you behave yourself and I don’t hear about it from all your friends. It’s not precisely proper, you know.”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said sincerely. The lure of a warm soak was calling him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the opportunity, though that wasn’t saying a lot because he couldn’t remember very much of when he was bodily seventeen anymore.

“Finish your meal and I’ll show you the way.”

“Oh, I’m finished,” Harry insisted. He picked up his wand and the journal with the quill still closed in it. He wasn’t going anywhere without them but it was a bit tricky carrying them and still managing to hold the back of his hospital gown shut over his bum.

Madam Pomfrey nodded and motioned for him to follow her. As they passed the gown wardrobe, she grabbed him a clean one, much to Harry’s dismay. He hated the open-backed gowns. She led him into her office. He’d been in there before. It mostly held files, a desk for doing her paperwork, and a locked and warded cabinet for the storage of certain potions. There was also a door which Madam Pomfrey opened and motioned him through. She stopped and opened one door to reveal a storage cupboard and took out a towel which she passed to Harry before sending him though an open door and into a modest bathroom. She reached around the door to hang the clean gown on a hook there.

“Put your clothing in the hamper. It will disappear to the laundry. Find me when you’re finished. I’ll probably be in my office or on the ward,” she said.

“Thank you.” Harry closed the door behind him and turned on the water. He hung the towel on the rack by the radiator and set his journal and wand safely out of the way on the windowsill of the small window. The shades were open and Harry saw the front gates to the castle grounds and just a glimpse of the Quidditch Pitch off to the left. In a normal castle, it wouldn’t have made sense considering that the Hospital Wing’s windows looked out over the lake on one side and an inner courtyard on the other, with the Great Hall between it and the front road and all they’d done to get here was open a door in Madam Pomfrey’s office. But Harry knew that didn’t really mean anything. Doors at Hogwarts could open onto anywhere, sometimes different places depending on certain conditions. There was one in the Gryffindor Common Room that belonged to Professor McGonagall’s Office during the day but he’d heard tell that it was her quarters on the other side at night.

He stripped and slid into the slowly rising water. His eyes slid shut and he sighed contentedly at the exquisite warmth. He enjoyed quite a long soak before he even started scrubbing and gently the cold in his bones disappeared and the icy feeling that had stuck to his skin all night vanished. Even after his skin started to wrinkle from the water, he stayed in soaking, but eventually even the water in a magical tub cooled and he decided to drain it and get out. He dried himself with the towel and put the gown on with a sigh. Hopefully later that day, he could convince Madam Pomfrey to let him wear normal clothing. The gowns, like hospital gowns everywhere, were designed specifically to keep patients in bed for fear of embarrassment and unfortunate drafts. He put the towel in the hamper and collected his wand and journal from the windowsill, then turned and opened the door.

But as soon as Harry opened the bathroom door, he could hear upset voices in the sitting room.

“I don’t understand how it happened,” Madam Pomfrey said sorrowfully. “She was perfectly fine when she left the Hospital Wing at midnight.”

Harry wondered what had happened and who they were talking about. He paused in the doorway to retie his gown a bit tighter so there was as little gap in the back as he could manage. He hadn’t expected anyone but Madam Pomfrey and perhaps Ron to be between him and his bed.

“We gave her a Time Turner!” Professor McGonagall wailed. “She wanted to take too many classes but Albus pulled some strings and got her one. She’s been going back all year to sit several classes at once.”

Madam Pomfrey gasped. “Minnie, why didn’t you tell me?  I should have been monitoring her all year. She probably worked herself to exhaustion more than once and who knows if she was eating properly with extra hours everyday.”

“What does it matter now?” Professor McGonagall said bitterly. “If the news gets out, she’ll be removed from school altogether and her parents are muggles. They won’t be able to handle a werewolf for a daughter.”

The bottom fell out of Harry’s stomach. Hermione was bitten?

“Oh god,” Harry gasped. How had this happened?  Hermione had been alright when she left at midnight and she’d had no reason to leave the safety of the castle after that. But if she’d gone back in time, even after promising him she wouldn’t...

Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall heard his exclamation and found him leaning heavily against the wall for support just outside the bathroom.

“Where is she?  I have to see her!” Harry gasped.

Madam Pomfrey hesitated but then said, “I’ll take you to her room.”

“Mr Potter, I can’t impress upon you enough the importance of this remaining completely confidential,” Professor McGonagall warned, scowling over more people knowing this dangerous secret.

“I know. The Ministry hates werewolves and Hermione’s a muggleborn too which just makes it worse,” Harry said bitterly as he headed down the corridor to the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office, the women hurrying after him.

Back on the ward, Madam Pomfrey went right to one of her linen wardrobes and cast an unlocking spell on the door. Harry was confused until she pulled the door open and inside was not bed linens but a hidden isolation room. Inside, Hermione lay tossing and turning in feverish sleep. She looked so young... and so ill. Harry pushed past Madam Pomfrey. There was no visitor’s chair so he sat at the foot of her bed, careful of her feet. He could see raw, red lines lacing her shoulders and arms where nasty gashes were in the process of healing. Her face was undamaged, but Madam Pomfrey had had to shave half of her hair to get at a large wound to the side of her head. The rest of her hair was damp with sweat and sticking to her face. She must have been torn to ribbons, he thought painfully. And while werewolves healed quickly and were damned hard to kill, Hermione wasn’t a werewolf yet. Healing any damage caused by Dark Creatures would take all Madam Pomfrey’s skill and yet it still may not be enough.

“Oh, Hermione,” Harry whispered sadly. He leaned over her and tried to brush her hair out of her face. Suddenly, she thrashed and snapped her teeth at the hand but Harry hastily pulled it out of reach. A little frightened by the reaction, he returned to the spot at the foot of her bed.

And for a long time, he just sat there and kept her company. It gave him a lot of time to think. He tried to reconcile what he remembered of Remus with what seeing Hermione like this made him feel for Lupin. He was angry at Lupin for neglecting one simple obligation of his condition: to take a potion once a month. He felt horribly alone. The people here were younger, hadn’t been affected by the war, they weren’t yet the people Harry knew and he missed his friends. His memories of his third year were returning. He could remember now that the password to Gryffindor Tower was ‘Aethenon’, for example.

But simply knowing these people didn’t mean he still had the same relationship with them. He was different now — a nearly 18-year-old war veteran — from everyone else’s perspective, he had changed a lot. He’d aged four years and they hadn’t always been pleasant times.

“You’ve been in here all day, Mr Potter.” Madam Pomfrey stuck her head in looking worried.

Harry shook himself free from the weight of his thoughts. “When is she going to wake up?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Sometime after the fever breaks, I’m afraid. Could be an hour, could be days. You need to get back to your own bed.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said dismissively.

“I really must insist. I’ll let you know when Ms Granger wakes up, but until then, you should get back to your own bed, have something to eat, and maybe see some visitors.”

“Alright,” Harry said reluctantly. It was true that he could do with something to eat and he knew how weird it would look if he had a visitor and Madam Pomfrey had to call him out of the linen cupboard. Madam Pomfrey stepped out of the cupboard door first, followed by Harry, and then they made their way across the ward to Harry’s customary bed. He considered asking for the bed nearest Hermione’s room, but didn’t want anyone to ask questions and possibly find out about Hermione.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked, noting Ron’s now-empty bed as they passed it.

“He recovered and was released just before lunch,” Madam Pomfrey replied.

“He didn’t stay and sit with Hermione?” Harry asked with disbelief.

“He doesn’t know,” Madam Pomfrey replied sternly. “And he is not to find out. Had you not overheard accidentally, you would not be permitted to know either.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered as he climbed into his bed. He knew that the fewer people who knew, the better, but he was worried that a secret like this could really come between friends. But he hadn’t yet met Ron since he came back. He could now remember what his 13-year-old self thought of Ron, but he’d learned from Hermione that those were sometimes unrealistic expectations. Ron was a kid. He was a good kid, but this was a dangerous secret and the last thing Harry needed was his friends pressuring him to become an animagus so they could run loose with a werewolf once a month. Ron didn’t need to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about this journal and what he remembers... I'm thinking those are little better than a master of Divination could come up with and because of that, they're within the normal operating parameters of the Harry Potter universe (and thus are not going to cause a paradox). He has to be able to keep a few memories because (1) he's seen some things that would be incredibly difficult to forget, things that will probably haunt him for a long time, and (2) if no one remembered anything, they'd just keep trying to change time, ending up trapped in an unstable time loop.


	3. Support

“Hello, Madam Pomfrey. Is it alright if I visit Harry for a little while?” Ron asked.

“Of course, Mr Weasley, but don’t keep him from his meal,” she replied. She then summoned a house elf to bring Harry a light dinner.

It wasn’t Dobby that popped back a minute later, as Ron took the seat next to Harry, but Harry thanked it and took the tray eagerly.

“So...” Ron began awkwardly. “You alright then, mate?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied as he lifted the lids off each of the dishes to see what the house elves had sent him. Just smelling these dishes, he was suddenly ravenous.

“That’s good...” Ron replied uncertainly, his expression guarded.

Harry hoped this wasn’t an indication of how everyone else would treat him too. He dug heartily into a plate of baked chicken and two veg and moaned happily. There was just nothing like the food at Hogwarts.

“Did you get the Prophet this morning?” Ron asked nervously.

Harry nodded. He was too busy filling his mouth with the most delicious seasoned rice at that moment to say anything.

“Everyone wants to know what happened, you know, but they don’t believe Sirius is innocent. I answered their questions, but they said I was Confunded,” Ron said.

Harry nodded and lifted another forkful of veg. “They want to believe the Prophet,” he said, and popped the broccoli into his mouth.

Silence stretched again. It didn’t bother Harry very much. He was busy eating. But it did bother Ron. “You’re... quiet. Is it because of the Kiss?” Ron asked uncertainly after a while.

“I’m quiet because I’m eating, Ron,” Harry said stiffly, trying to keep his patience. He lifted his cup to his mouth and took a long drink. Getting Kissed was certainly serious, but so were a lot of other things he was dealing with right now. Hermione’s infection was right up there. So, of course, was all this trouble with time. He’d spent most of the night committing fading memories to paper, not thinking about what had happened to him. He’d survived his worst fear and he’d moved on. The Kiss hadn’t changed him. Everything else had. But he couldn’t say that, so he said nothing.

“What was it like?” Ron asked, again striving to fill the silence.

Harry set his cup down very slowly and turned to pin Ron with a disbelieving stare. He knew Ron had never really learned discretion (respect for privacy is not a survival trait in large families), but to ask a question like that with as much nonchalance as if Harry had just had his first date... and Ron was on the edge of his seat, waiting for an answer. Harry let Ron wait for several more minutes while he continued to eat. Then he gave up hoping that Ron would change the subject and finally, Harry said, “Don’t know. I was unconscious while...” He trailed off, unable to actually say it. “Shouldn’t you be getting to dinner?”

Ron looked a little disappointed, but it passed. “Yeah, maybe. Or I could stay here and share yours. It looks like that elf brought you plenty.”

Harry really hoped Ron would get over this soon. He liked Ron, he really did, just not at the moment. “People will want to talk to you,” he reminded Ron.

That seemed to cheer Ron up. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said as he stood. “I hope you feel better soon.” He turned towards the door, paused unexpectedly and turned back. “You haven’t seen Hermione around, have you?  I couldn’t find her this afternoon.”

“She’s probably just hiding out and avoiding all the questions,” Harry said, poking around in his pudding nervously. No one had yet told him what to tell people who asked after Hermione.

“Yeah, that must be it. Well, I’ll probably stop by again tomorrow.”

And then Ron left and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He was sure Ron hadn’t been like this before. He was probably just worried. His best mate had just been Kissed by a dementor and that would make anyone awkward. Or at least Harry hoped that was all it was. Then as soon as Ron realized Harry was alright, things could go back to normal. Harry finished his pudding and set the tray aside. In its place on his lap, he opened his journal and picked up his quill.

It hesitated over the page.

His memories had mostly finished re-ordering themselves now. Most of his upper years at Hogwarts and the last year of the war had faded beyond his ability to recall. If he read a note about something that had happened and really thought about it, he could get a vague sense of the memory, a few images, some of the feelings. There were exceptions, like the memory of Snape’s death and the images the Resurrection Stone had called up of his parents and his godfather and Remus, encouraging him to walk to his death and how despicable he thought that was. Those were still crystal clear and burnt onto his soul. In time, he expected they would fade. Snape was still here, after all, and his parents still gone. He could at least hope that time would dull the hurt of the worst of the war.

Harry could think of nothing new to add. He closed the journal and tucked it back under his pillow, lay back and closed his eyes. He felt cast adrift here and it hurt. But he wasn’t given time to dwell as he heard the doors open followed by heavy footsteps. He opened his eyes to see Hagrid making a valiant effort to tiptoe around Harry’s bed and leave a note on his visiting chair.

“Hi, Hagrid,” Harry said, sitting up.

“Sorry ter wake yeh, Harry,” Hagrid apologized.

“No, no. I was up already. Just... thinking,” Harry assured him.

“Ah, well then,” Hagrid said happily, putting aside the unnecessary note and taking a seat instead. “I ’ad stopped in earlier this mornin’, only yeh was in the bath and then visitin’ Hermione on account of the... yeh know.”

“Madam Pomfrey said I had to come out here and eat something and see my own visitors,” Harry explained.

“It’s right quiet in here,” Hagrid commented. “The rest o’ the school’s a riot though. Professor Snape told all his Slytherins about Professor Lupin. Said they needed to know ’bout dangerous beasts. That was a bit harsh, really. Professor Lupin’s a great Defense Professor,” Hagrid said.

“I expect they’d have known something was up when Lupin turned up this morning covered in blood,” Harry said but the bite in his voice was apparently lost on Hagrid.

“Nah,” Hagrid said. “The Headmaster was goin’ ta say it was on account o’ Buckbeak. See, Beakie tried to protect... yeh know. She’d o’ died if not for him. I’ll miss him of course, but at least he died honorably.”

Harry scowled. Lupin was dangerous, even if only for one night a month. Hermione was proof. Sure the potion could change that, but only when it was taken. Therefore, the danger still existed. And yet, Hermione was going to be here. Or at least he expected she would be and he would get very angry if anyone tried to expel her from Hogwarts. So Harry knew he had a double standard but it didn’t make it any easier to accept that Lupin’s mistake had caused the trouble Hermione was in now and would have to deal with for the rest of her life. He didn’t know what to feel about Lupin. He blamed him, but he also knew he had always thought highly of the man.

“When does Lupin leave?” Harry asked.

“He’s packin’ now,” Hagrid replied.

Harry nodded. He blamed Lupin and he didn’t know that he could be around the man right now without losing his temper and saying something he might later regret. He wondered who the next Defense Professor would be. They’d had two really awful ones, but Lupin had been good. He tried to recall if he’d made any notes about Defense professors in his journal, but he hadn’t.

*****

Madam Pomfrey shook Harry awake. It was dark. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. He heard voices coming from the other end of the ward and looked over to see the door to Hermione’s room open and light streaming through it.

“The Headmaster and Professor Snape are in with her now. You take a moment to wake up and put on your own pajamas and you can have half an hour with her when they leave.”

Harry nodded and collected his pajamas, glad to be allowed out of the hospital gown, and headed for the loo. When he opened the door again, he could hear Hermione crying. He could see as he approached that the professors were still there. The Headmaster was standing next to Hermione’s bed, saying something. Professor Snape was standing just inside the door, his back pressed against the wall. Harry wondered if Snape saw himself in Hermione, how close he’d come to this when he was just a bit older than her, or if he only saw the werewolf. He wondered if Snape knew that Dumbledore had wanted to send two children on a fool’s errand into the night when he knew a werewolf was out there.

Harry slipped in.

“Mr Potter,” Snape began warningly.

“Let him in, Severus,” Professor Dumbledore said, turning away from the crying Hermione. “We should be going. Harry, the secret that you overheard is not to be repeated under any circumstances. Were anyone to find out, Ms Granger could well find herself expelled and in serious trouble with the Ministry.”

“I know, Professor,” Harry said, pushing past to sit next to Hermione on the bed and putting an arm around her shoulders.

“The only people who know are those of us in this room, Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, and Hagrid. Do not tell Ron Weasley, or any of the Weasleys, or your dormmates, either of you. No one else may know.”

“Lupin doesn’t know?” Harry demanded incredulously.

“No, and you will not tell him. He would be beside himself with grief and would likely feel compelled to turn himself in to the Ministry for execution,” Dumbledore replied.

Harry thought it was more likely Lupin would cast a Severing Charm at his own throat. The Ministry wouldn’t care who did what to a condemned werewolf. If anyone even thought to complain, they’d claim it had been necessary to convince the condemned to give up the name of the victim for their Werewolf Registry. But Harry didn’t want this secret to get out either — for Hermione’s protection and his own. Dumbledore would be sacked and disgraced for this and Harry couldn’t have that. Harry didn’t like the man, but he was a known quantity and his presence would make Voldemort hesitant, even cautious, so Harry needed him to stay Hogwarts Headmaster.

Hermione was still crying, but Harry comforted her and slowly she calmed down enough to talk.

“I can’t believe this happened to me,” Hermione said with a sniffle. “What am I going to do, Harry?  My parents are muggles. I’ll be in the muggle world all summer. How am I even going to tell them?”

“You just tell them,” Harry said, trying to make it sound simple. “Professor Dumbledore didn’t make any arrangements for full moon nights?”

“Professor Snape said he’d make me the Wolfsbane Potion, and Professor Dumbledore said he’d find me a room t-t-to use during term,” she said miserably.

Harry scowled. Why hadn’t Dumbledore figured something out for summers?  Surely he didn’t expect Hermione’s parents to be alright with a transformed werewolf in their house and Hermione lived in the middle of London, not out in the countryside somewhere. There wasn’t anywhere for her to go and the neighbors might as questions the Grangers couldn’t legally answer. They couldn’t do this on their own.

“I’ll figure something out, Hermione,” he promised. _I will look out for my friends._ Those words from his journal circled in his head.

“But you live with muggles too,” she said.

“I know,” Harry said. The ‘don’t remind me’ was always implied with term-time discussion of Dursleys, but this time, it made him feel even more trapped than ever before. He didn’t even want to think about going back there so soon. He had been putting off deciding what to do for himself over the summer but now it was more important to help Hermione. Back when he was really thirteen, he’d have gone to Dumbledore, probably begged and pleaded for a bit, and then Dumbledore would have magnanimously offered up some solution to Hermione’s predicament. But there was no reason to do that now, not yet at least. He wasn’t thirteen anymore and there was still time left to manage on his own, dignity in tact.

Harry wasn’t allowed to stay with Hermione for very long. She still needed restful sleep now that her fever had broken so Madam Pomfrey gave her a sleeping potion and sent Harry back to his own bed. It wasn’t yet midnight, Harry was wide awake and Madam Pomfrey was reluctant to give him a second sleeping potion so soon so he was allowed to stay up as long as he lay quietly in bed. This suited him just fine. He had a lot on his mind. He needed to find something that would preserve Hermione’s secrecy and his own independence. He had one idea. He couldn’t remember quite where the street called Grimmauld Place was in London or what Number 12 was like, but he had noted that it was a very secure house suitable for a secret organization like the Order to use as headquarters and for Lupin to live in for awhile. Well, that meant it was just as suitable for him and Hermione. Simply inheriting the place from his godfather wasn’t an option - Sirius’s body hadn’t died yet and even when it did, there was no way of knowing who the estate would pass to. But there might be a way.

One word in the Daily Prophet that morning had put him on to it. Reparations. They’d said he was entitled to reparations. Or at least that’s what he’d read into it. It had been towards the end, amid their commentary on the fall of the House of Black. They’d speculated on what would become of the estate once reparations for Sirius’ lifetime of crime had been paid. Harry knew about reparations from his History of Magic revision. In the wizarding world, if someone committed certain crimes for which a term in Azkaban was considered too harsh, they or their family were liable to pay the victim or family of the victim. Attempted kidnapping was one of those crimes. So were certain kinds of enabling the commission of a crime, such as telling one’s would-be murderers where to find them. But somehow, he’d never really thought about it in terms of his own life.

Sure, he knew Sirius was innocent and the real criminals were never going to be brought to Ministry justice, but from the perspective of everyone else, Sirius was guilty and the Blacks ought to owe the Potters quite a tidy sum by now. In a perfect world, Harry knew it would be wrong to claim it, but this wasn’t a perfect world. He and Hermione could really use the Black House and if they didn’t claim it, Harry had the vague impression that the next closest relation to Sirius was probably the Malfoys who definitely did not need it. There was also the matter of the horcrux Regulus had stolen. Harry had to get his hands on that. Besides, Harry was pretty sure his godfather would have wanted him to have the Black Estate. It was just the means of getting it that Harry felt was terribly unfair. But that was a small ethical dilemma inside a solution to a much larger, more immediate, more dangerous problem that Harry had to try to solve. So for Hermione’s sake and his own, and possibly eventually for the Order’s as well, Harry knew he would do it.

He didn’t really know how to go about claiming his entitlement, but he did know someone he could ask, someone who wanted very much to please him right now: the Minister for Magic. Harry had the power to lose Fudge his job and Fudge had become painfully aware of that. Harry could pull a Draco Malfoy and milk the Kiss for all it was worth in front of the press. He wasn’t going to, but Fudge knew he could. Harry could not know if Fudge knew that Sirius hadn’t been kidnapping him or that Sirius was innocent of the crimes he was sent to Azkaban for, but if he did, he had even more reason to fear for his job because one interview from Harry and people would start to question their government. There’d be a vote of no confidence and Fudge would be out.

A man like that, afraid of what Harry could say and in a position to do something about it, could be a dangerous enemy. Keep him waiting, wondering when and if you’re going to strike, and he may easily deem it necessary to attack preemptively. A quick, strong defamation campaign in the press and nothing Harry said would be believable. It would be so easy too, now that Harry thought about the sort of man he was facing. Fudge could announce ‘with grave regret’ that the Kiss had seriously affected Harry leaving him unstable and unlikely to recover anytime soon. Harry’s heart beat faster as he thought about it but his mind worked away at the problem and realized that there was a way to deal with a man like that and prevent such a difficult outcome. When faced with as corrupt a man as Fudge, don’t give him time to get scared by the unknown... become a known quantity, speak in a language he can understand. Fudge was waiting for demands and now that he thought about it, Harry realized he couldn’t afford to wait. His plan could really work.

Though Madam Pomfrey wasn’t happy about it, he stayed up for another two hours and carefully, and with many false starts, penned a letter to the Minister. Harry wasn’t politically savvy, per se, but he had plenty of practice at watching his words and with his upbringing he’d had to be very clever whenever he’d needed to request things. He put those skills to work now. He opened by thanking Minister Fudge for his visit and his well wishes. He made sure to balance the point of his letter with a couple of modest strokes for Fudge’s ego to keep Fudge happy. Then he wrote that while the recovery was slow that he was beginning to feel more himself. He also included a paragraph where he carefully shifted the blame for what happened from squarely on the Ministry for their lack of foresight and control with the dementors mostly onto the Blacks. He mentioned the history of devastating crimes Sirius Black was accused of perpetrating on the Potter family and then he wondered about the future of the Black Estate and especially the family’s former home in London. After a lot of work and a large chunk of his journal pages now torn out, balled up, and littering his bed, he had a letter that, without being too overbearing, he thought would get the job done. He signed it. Madam Pomfrey had gone to bed already but she’d told him to summon a house elf if he needed anything, so he did and had the elf that arrived take the letter to the Owlery. With any luck, it would arrive over breakfast the next morning.

He felt a bit apprehensive about asking for what might be perceived as a payoff and about what he might be asked to do to get it. He couldn’t help but feel a bit like this was the first step down a road he didn’t want to be on. But Harry had to single-handedly shoulder some very difficult responsibilities now. He had Hermione to think about, because someone had to step up, and he had horcruxes to find. He’d told himself what the objects looked like, where to find them, and how to destroy them, but not what a horcrux was. He could ask or research it himself, but people — Dumbledore in particular — could get the wrong idea. He no longer trusted the Headmaster with his safety and if the man began to worry that Harry might be going Dark, well, Harry just didn’t want to find out how long Dumbledore would wait before trying to destroy the horcrux in his head.

Harry fell asleep slowly and all night he dreamed paranoid dreams of Dumbledore chasing him, calling him Tom. When he woke up the next morning, he felt even more tired than when he’d gone to sleep and he looked much the worse for wear. Madam Pomfrey had come to his bedside prepared to give him one last examination before release but she took one look at him, announced he’d be staying, and sent him back to bed with a Dreamless Sleep potion.

When Harry woke up again around noon feeling a bit better, he saw that Hermione had been moved out of the hidden room and on to the main ward. She was occupying the bed next to his, reading from a huge stack of books which, he noted idly, all appeared to be about werewolves. It wasn’t very subtle, that was certain. As he passed by on his way to the loo, he gently toed the stack of books around so their spines faced the wall and no one could read their titles. When he returned, Hermione was so engrossed in her reading that she didn’t even looked up to acknowledge him.

So this was one of those study sessions: the sort where any word in her direction was met with a harsh shush while her eyes continued to flow across the page, the kind where she’d whack one of her friends on the back of their head with her school bag if they were too loud, the kind where Weasley Twin mayhem was met not with a scolding but by Hermione simply getting up and walking away while still continuing to read. Harry sighed and sat back down on his bed, leaving Hermione to her own devices.

Harry quietly looked through the candy and cards he’d received from his housemates as his thoughts drifted. He made some tentative plans to go to the Chamber of Secrets for a fang and to the Room of Requirement for the diadem horcrux as soon as he was released. If Fudge decided to help him, he’d have another horcrux and an elf that knew something about horcruxes to help him.

An hour later, Madam Pomfrey called Harry into her office. Professor McGonagall was waiting there too.

“Take a seat, would you, Mr Potter?” Madam Pomfrey said. Both women looked upset.

“Mr Potter, I, that is, we need to inform you of...” Professor McGonagall floundered and fell silent.

Harry’s eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. He couldn’t imagine what would leave Minerva McGonagall at a loss for words.

She took a deep breath and started over. “Harry, I went to your relatives’ house after you were hurt.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “You went to see the Dursleys?” he asked, grimacing.

“Yes. I’m very sorry to say... that is...” again, McGonagall faltered.

“They were upset I’d survived, right?” Harry said quietly. Saying it out loud had been surprisingly easy. It had just come out because he’d pitied Professor McGonagall, struggling to find some way to say it, but now that it was out there, he found he couldn’t meet her eyes or Madam Pomfrey’s.

“Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry,” McGonagall said helplessly.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d have told you not to bother if I’d known you were thinking of going,” he said, trying desperately to sound nonchalant, but it bothered him that she knew.

“Have you told anybody—” Madam Pomfrey began quietly.

Harry’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Told them what?” he asked bitterly. “That my family doesn’t love me?  Yeah, but that’s not illegal, it just sucks. I’ll get by. I always do.”

Madam Pomfrey swallowed hard, took a moment to collect herself, and then said, “Harry, we— that is, Minnie and I— we need you to know that we’re here for you, to support you with whatever you need. What happened to you, it was horrible, and with you not having anyone at home that you can talk to, we want you to come to us.”

Harry immediately felt bad for snapping at these women. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes falling shut.

“It’s okay,” Madam Pomfrey assured him. “You’re forgiven. We’d rather know what you’re feeling that have you bottle it all up inside.”

“Alright. I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry said, his eyes still shut — it was a sign of just how overwhelmed he was.

“That’s all we can ask,” Professor McGonagall said quietly.

Harry’s hands came up and scrubbed his face. When they drew away, he looked at both women.

Harry nodded. “So... can I go?”

“Back to bed,” Madam Pomfrey said.

Harry returned to his temporary bed beside Hermione, sinking into it, he had the strong urge to pull the sheets over his head and stay there until the world was right again. But he couldn’t. The words of his journal echoed in his mind: _now that I have this chance, I will make the most of it._

Harry was glad for Hermione’s preoccupation that afternoon. It gave him a little while after his talk with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall to collect himself in peace.

He and Hermione both took a break from their quiet afternoon reading for a visit from Ron. Later that evening, Neville too stopped by for a visit.

For a while, Neville, Harry and Hermione just talked about normal stuff but when Hermione decided to return to her reading and took her book to the chair by the window at the far end of the ward, Neville brought up a subject that Harry hadn’t expected.

“So you know my Gran’s on the Goblin Relations Committee of the Wizengamot,” Neville began. Harry hadn’t known, but he waited for Neville to get the the point.

“I got a letter from her after dinner. She approves and files reparations orders with Gringotts.”

“Oh,” Harry managed, surprised.

But Neville rushed on. "I don’t want you to think she’s been keeping anything from you. You have to understand, Sirius Black’s mother was her predecessor and a lot of reparations payments were blocked at the end of the last war. Mrs Black just made so much trouble for the Ministers. It wasn’t Gran that did it."

“Ah,” Harry said, thinking it certainly explained something about the justice system at the end of the last war if Sirius’ horrible mother had been an important political figure.

“It’s all a bit mad right now because, with you being owed for your kidnapping, Minister Fudge is pushing to collect all the back reparations the Blacks and some of the other convicted Death Eaters owe. The Minister is asking that you get half the Black Estate, including their house in London. Gran sort of asked me to find out it that was a reasonable request.”

Harry was shocked and it showed on his face, not because he was getting what he’d asked for, but because it was happening so fast. He’d been right to go straight to Fudge. For the Minister to have drawn up the paperwork and approached Madam Longbottom in less than a day, on a Saturday no less, he must really be worried about what Harry could do. Harry carefully kept the smirk he felt forming from showing on his face. Instead, he said, “Oh. Yeah, that’s okay. I mean, I don’t know what’s usual...”

“It’s complicated,” Neville explained. “I’ll let Gran know what you said. You could ask for more, you know.”

“I don’t need more,” Harry said, worried that asking that the offer be changed in any way might lose him the house. “It’s a good offer. You know what my family’s like. Having a house of my own...”

“Yeah,” Neville said, frowning at the thought of Harry’s family. After a moment of ill-wishing the Dursleys, he added, “The Ministry’s giving me all three of the Lestrange vaults. There’s not much left in them since they were financing You-Know-Who in the war, but still...”

“The Lestrange vaults?” Harry asked, thinking keenly of the journal. “You know there’s a rumor that they have a relic of the Founders in there.”

“I don’t know. I won’t know exactly what they had until Gringotts sends me the inventories. I hadn’t heard any rumor though.”

“I have. Any chance you’d sell it to me?  If it is there, I mean,” Harry ventured, hoping that didn’t sound too forward.

Neville shrugged. “That depends on what it is, I suppose. Does ‘rumor’ know?”

“It’s supposedly Hufflepuff’s cup,” Harry admitted, shrugging as if he was uncertain.

“Oh,” Neville said, sounding disappointed. “Not anything from Gryffindor?”

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“Well, if it is there, we can talk about it,” Neville agreed.

Harry suppressed a grin at getting that much closer to another horcrux and a better future. It wasn’t long after that that Neville had to head back to Gryffindor Tower for the night, promising as he left that he’d write to his Gran. Harry slept better that night knowing that his plans seemed to be on track. When he woke up in the morning looking and feeling refreshed, Madam Pomfrey agreed to release him to return to Gryffindor.


	4. A New Normal

Harry stood before Gryffindor Tower’s guardian portrait gripped by how ordinary it felt. On the one hand, his memories were telling him that he’d only been in the Hospital Wing for three nights and he was feeling very much as if this were perfectly commonplace. On the other, he knew that it had been awhile. He wasn’t sure how long because his memories had finished rearranging themselves, but he still thought there ought to be some significant feeling of homecoming. Only there wasn’t. It was just another day at Hogwarts. Harry sighed and spoke the password. The portrait swung open and he climbed through. He wasn’t wasting any time, now that he was out of the Hospital Wing. He went straight to his trunk. He had a horcrux and a fang to acquire and he didn’t want to be seen with them so he was looking for the map and his Invisibility cloak. He rummaged around as best he could, but he just didn’t see them.

“No!” he moaned, smacking his forehead, furious at himself. He’d left the cloak in the Shrieking Shack that night... and he’d already lost the map before that. Hadn’t a teacher taken it?  Lupin!  Harry ground his teeth together. Well now he was angry that Lupin hadn’t come to see him in the Hospital Wing, if only to return the map. He was fairly sure that was what had happened the last time. He couldn’t really remember the event, of course, but he was certain that he’d had the map in later years so logically, it had to have happened something like that.

Harry paced the room. He’d have to ask Dumbledore about the cloak and hope someone trustworthy had found it and turned it in. And maybe Lupin had left the map with Dumbledore too. He could hope, at least. But the more immediate issue was the horcrux hunt. Going without both the cloak and the map was risky, but he was anxious to collect the two items and make some progress on the things he’d written about in his journal.

“I have to do this,” Harry decided at last, gathering up a the things he’d need. A few Gryffindors noticed him as he crossed the Common Room this time and stopped him to ask after his health and he politely but briefly replied before pushing on. Finally he escaped the Common Room and after that, he found the way to the Chamber clear of students and ghosts as most everyone was enjoying their free time outside or in other parts of the castle than the classroom wings. Even Myrtle was gone when he arrived in the bathroom. He quickly checked that no one else was lurking in the little-used toilet and then found the sink with the snake scratched into the tap.

“Open,” he said, but nothing happened. “Open. Open!” he tried again. “Why isn’t it working?” And then his eyes went wide and his hand flew to his forehead. _Was it gone?  How could it be gone?  Unless... Dementors ate souls!_  “Wait, what?” Now his head hurt. That had felt like an explanation, the whole explanation — that dementors ate souls, but what did that have to do with why he couldn’t speak Parseltongue anymore?  He fought through the headache and tried hard to think. His scar was one piece of the puzzle and the scar was a horcrux, he knew from his journal. So perhaps the horcrux had been the part of him that spoke Parseltongue. And if it was gone, then either something had happened in the future or... no, that wasn’t right. The thing about the dementors... “Arggh!” Harry groaned. He just couldn’t remember and it was infuriating.

“Damnit!” So he couldn’t get a fang because he couldn’t get into the chamber and without a fang, he couldn’t... but there was something else in the journal!  He remembered it all of a sudden and hurriedly pulled the little book from his robe pocket. He flipped pages madly. “There!” he said, his finger stabbing the chart. They’d planned for someone to kill Nagini with the sword he’d used to slay the basilisk because it would have absorbed the venom in that battle. And he remembered Dumbledore putting that sword on the shelf in his office. It might still be there!

But his excitement at finding an alternative abruptly fell when he realized how hard it would be to get that sword. Still, hard was better than impossible. He couldn’t ask Dumbledore to borrow it, not when Dumbledore surely knew it was dangerous and a Founder’s artifact to boot. But maybe he could steal it, except that he’d need an airtight alibi. That was easier said than done. He flipped through the pages of his journal, hoping for a little inspiration and found mention of a matched pair of Vanishing Cabinets — one sitting broken in the corridor above Filch’s office and one for sale in Borgin & Burkes. If he could get the school’s repaired, he could buy the one in Knockturn and use it to sneak into Hogwarts over the summer when it was empty and steal the sword. Harry sighed. This was not going to be easy. He would have to learn how to repair Vanishing Cabinets. He needed to visit the library.

Harry wasn’t going to ask right out about Vanishing Cabinets, in case it got back to Dumbledore, but he thought it might be the same type of magic that Mr Weasley had used on his car. He wasn’t sure where to begin looking, so he approached the librarian, Madam Pince. “I’m looking for books about making things run on magic — like, umm, cars and radios and blenders.”

“Are you well enough to be out of bed, Mr Potter?” Madam Pince asked, looking at him concernedly over her spectacles.

“Yes, ma’am. Madam Pomfrey released me this morning. I’m feeling much better. I just want to get back to normal, you know,” Harry said.

“So you’re looking for a new hobby?  Technomancy is an advanced magic which usually requires a strong foundation in runes and arithmancy. Are you taking those subjects?” she asked, coming around from behind the circulation desk.

“No,” Harry replied, a little worried that this idea wasn’t going to work. He followed Madam Pince into the stacks.

“There are reference books for runes and formula sheets for arithmancy but you may need to refer to the class texts to make sense of them. They’ll be here,” she said stopping in one section and scanning the shelves. “But it looks like the library copies are checked out. You can ask Professor Burbage to borrow some though. She keeps several copies for the NEWT Muggle Studies students. I’ll show you the technomancy section.”

Harry followed her another shelf deeper into the library where she showed him the section with books on magical technology and then left him to look them over. “Thanks,” Harry said as she left.

There were about three dozen books. Nothing seemed to stand out as particularly likely to discuss Vanishing Cabinets. He ignored the books on Floo technology as they seemed too specific to help with what he needed. Most of the books were about muggle devices and Harry took down a few and flipped through them. He chose a couple but he wasn’t sure if it was different enchanting mechanical kitchen appliances to run on magical power than to turn a plain cabinet into a Vanishing Cabinet. And then he found six books on magical inventions like Probity Probes and various types of magical mirrors. That seemed more similar to how a Vanishing Cabinet must work so he took most of those and went to check them out. Harry had quite a stack of books when he left the library and he added two more when he stopped in at the Muggle Studies classroom to speak with Professor Burbage before heading up to Gryffindor Tower. In the peace and quiet of his empty dorm room, he was able to begin reading with few interruptions.

*****

“Potter, the Headmaster wants to see you in his office,” a seventh-year stuck his head into Harry’s dorm room to say.

It crossed Harry’s mind that perhaps he should have been more cautious with the failed attempt to visit the Chamber of Secrets. If Dumbledore knew about that, this might be trouble. Harry tried to think this through. Even if the Headmaster knew what he’d done since getting out of the infirmary and suspected that Harry wasn’t the same as before, Harry didn’t think he’d act on those suspicions yet. Besides, it was probably just as likely that Dumbledore, who hadn’t visited the Hospital Wing since the night Hermione woke up, only wanted to check on the progress of his recovery. So Harry prepared himself mentally, knowing that a cool head would be vital no matter what Dumbledore wanted from him.

He made his way to the second floor office and stopped outside the gargoyle. It stayed stubbornly still and he didn’t have a password to open it. “The Headmaster wanted to see me,” he told the gargoyle.

Slowly, it slid aside. Harry stepped onto the moving staircase and let it carry him all the way to the top where he knocked on the door and waited nervously for the Headmaster to invite him in.

“Come in,” Dumbledore called.

Harry pushed the door open to see the headmaster seated at his desk, waiting. Behind him, on a shelf next to the Sorting Hat, was the Sword of Gryffindor.

“Do have a seat, Harry,” the headmaster offered with a smile.

Harry looked sharply away from the sword and seated himself opposite the Headmaster. His nervousness growing, he had to force himself not to fidget. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” he said with a surprisingly calm voice. He was really working at keeping himself calm. If he could control himself, he had a much better chance of controlling the situation.

“Of course. You’ve had a trying week. Madam Pomfrey tells me you are recovered, but I wanted to assure myself, my boy. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Harry replied. A little tension ebbed out of his shoulders. Dumbledore was just checking in.

“You’ve faced your worst fear, Harry. It is okay to feel distressed,” Dumbledore counseled gently.

“I’m fine, really,” Harry insisted. Everyone made a lot of fuss about the Kiss, but for Harry, it had been overshadowed by everything else that had happened that night. The other things, the trouble with time and Hermione’s bite, had real consequences that Harry had to deal with. The Kiss had, by now, simply fallen by the wayside as Harry dealt with other things. “I guess I just feel lucky. I have faced my greatest fear and it could have been a lot worse. I could be like Sirius, or like Hermione,” he explained.

Dumbledore hesitated, but finally said, “I think that’s a healthy attitude to have. I want you to know that there are resources available to you. Madam Pomfrey hopes that you will go to her, should you need anything, even just someone to talk to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Professor,” Harry said evenly but he didn’t like Dumbledore bringing that up. If he decided to go to Madam Pomfrey about anything, he didn’t want Dumbledore nosing about. Even in the wizarding world, there was supposed to be privacy where healers like Madam Pomfrey counseled and treated their patients.

“There is, of course, another resource here at Hogwarts the likes of which cannot be found anywhere else,” the Headmaster said, smiling his benevolent benefactor smile again.

Harry gave him a confused and wary look, unsure what he could be referring to.

“I speak of the Sorting Hat, of course,” Dumbledore said, chuckling. “It has seen many thousands of minds and I have asked it to look into yours and make sure there are no lasting effects.”

Harry went tense. “W-what if there are?” he asked nervously. His hand hovered over his wand pocket on its own volition and his mind raced, trying to piece together scenarios for how this could go that wouldn’t end with Dumbledore’s wand pointed at his scarred head.

“Then I’m sure we can arrange for whatever treatment is necessary. You have nothing to fear, Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore jovially assured him.

“Mr Potter,” a voice called from the top of the cabinet behind Harry. “I would like to help you in any way I can and it would certainly be fascinating for me to examine the consequences of your unique encounter.”

“I was Kissed by a dementor,” Harry snapped, trying to buy time. “You can say it, you know. I won’t start crying or shaking... I really am fine.”

“Harry, I think you should let the hat take a look,” Dumbledore said, quietly but firmly.

 _Bugger!  How do I get out of this one?_  Harry thought anxiously. He did not want the Sorting Hat, who lived in Dumbledore’s office and would probably tell the old man everything, looking into his head. He should have taken it more seriously when he saw it in his journal in big letters, underlined about a dozen times, with five exclamation points to LEARN OCCLUMENCY. _Too late now..._ “I won’t!  I don’t want to,” Harry said, putting on a severe pout, thinking that perhaps acting childish would work.

“You’re thirteen, Mr Potter. Act like it,” Dumbledore said severely.

Before Harry could respond with a new tactic, the Sorting Hat interrupted to say, “I cannot tell anyone what I see in your head without your permission.”

Harry resisted the urge to give the hat an appraising look and did his best to make it seem like it was Dumbledore’s stern word and not the Hat’s promise that changed his mind. “Fine,” he said, still sounding very much the put-upon teenager. A row with Dumbledore was not what he needed right now and if the Hat could keep secrets, he supposed he could tolerate the intrusion.

Dumbledore stood and walked around the desk to where the Hat spent much of its time, lifted it down and dropped it neatly onto Harry’s head.

 _It’s quite alright, Mr Potter,_ the Hat told him privately. _No one likes having their innermost thoughts discussed behind their back. Let me see... Ah yes. What an interesting mind you have. What has happened to you to rearrange everything?  Even what I saw in your Sorting has moved!  Oh... oh my goodness. Well this is quite remarkable. You’re not the first I’ve seen in my many centuries who failed to heed the rules of time travel, but you do have by far the greatest potential to change because of it._

 _You’re not going to tell him, are you?_  Harry demanded harshly. _I won’t be manipulated — not again._

 _I told you I cannot unless you permit it,_ the Hat said, sounding a bit distracted as it rifled through memories.

 _So, um, what do you see?_  Harry asked after a moment. He did wonder if perhaps the Hat could see more than he could actually remember.

_The bits and pieces you remember are fascinating, truly food for thought. I struggle to find them though, so do excuse me if I seem distracted. It’s just that the effect of having two timelines side by side in your head, well its like an earthquake has happened in here. If I wasn’t a powerful device created specifically for the purpose of seeing into minds as I am, I wouldn’t be able to find a thing. I can certainly see now why a master of the Mind Arts like Headmaster Dumbledore would enlist my help. I doubt all but the very best Legilimens could find their way around in here._

_Oh. That’s good!_  Harry thought, cheered by this news.

The hat didn’t reply. For several more minutes, it searched his mind, then at last, it pronounced him, _Fit, whole, and healthy._

 _So, you wouldn’t happen to see a horcrux in there, would you?  And maybe know how to get rid of it without killing me?_  Harry thought hopefully.

 _A horcrux, you say?  Dark magic, that. Nasty business, for sure,_ the hat said, then began humming and Harry figured it had gone off looking through his mind again. _I can’t say that I see one,_ the hat finally reported. _Just you in here, and that is my professional opinion as a searcher of minds._

 _I thought not. I can’t speak Parseltongue anymore, you see,_ Harry said. _You have my permission to tell Dumbledore that, but only if he brings it up first. I don’t want him knowing that I know anything about horcruxes, whatever they are. I’m not supposed to have heard of them and I don’t want to have to tell him everything._

_Yes, I saw the cause of your mistrust. It is your decision, of course, and I will honor it. Thank you, Harry Potter, for giving me this opportunity. Thinking of it will fill many a dull day between writing new Sorting songs._

“You’re welcome,” Harry replied out loud as he lifted the hat off his head. He gave Dumbledore a bright smile.

“That wasn’t so bad.”

“Indeed, it would seem not,” Dumbledore replied evenly, taking the hat that Harry passed across the desk. “Why don’t you return to you dorm now, Harry.”

Harry’s smile melted. He would have bet galleons that Dumbledore wanted to interrogate the Hat in private. That was a pretty quick dismissal. But he bit back a remark in that regard and settled instead for playing the petulant teenager and asking, or rather demanding, to know if Dumbledore had his cloak.

“Oh, yes. Professor Lupin did drop it off on his way out. You really must take better care of this, Harry. It’s value cannot be understated, both for its usefulness and its value as a family heirloom,” he lectured, reaching into one of his desk drawers and pulling out the shimmering cloak.

Harry took it and hugged it to his chest like a lost pet returned home. He was so desperately glad to have it back. It was like a security blanket, only Harry hadn’t had one of those as a child. “Did Lupin leave anything else?” Harry asked, expecting the map to be there too.

“No, I don’t believe he did. Were you expecting something else?” Dumbledore asked, looking genuinely confused.

“Er, no,” Harry said. “Just, maybe a letter or something,” he finished lamely. If Dumbledore didn’t already know about the map, he wasn’t about to inform him. It was a useful tool and he didn’t want to risk it getting confiscated for use by the staff or the Order when it ought to be his to benefit from.

 _Great,_ Harry thought, annoyed, _so Lupin kept it. Did he not realize he still had it?  Or did he make the decision to keep it?  He must have given it back last time. I know I had it after third year._

“Well, if that’s all, carry on, Harry.”

Harry begrudgingly accepted the dismissal this time. It would have been pushing his luck not to. As he left, he considered what to do about Lupin. He didn’t really want to contact the man, but he needed the map. Back in his dorm, he got his stationary set and began work on a difficult letter. By dinner, he’d managed only to waste several feet of parchment and the last of one pot of ink. He set it aside to think on it and return later.

*****

“Why are you still here, Hermione?  Harry’s been out for days,” Ron asked, simply curious. He and Harry were visiting Hermione in the Hospital Wing before breakfast. Hermione was supposed to be released and then they could go to breakfast together. Unfortunately, Ron was proving to be a master at awkward questions.

“I’ve told you Ron,” Hermione said stiffly, suddenly very concerned with tying her shoes just right, “I’ve been going back in time to take extra classes all year and it finally just caught up with me. A case of exhaustion, Madam Pomfrey said.”

“But, the timing—” Ron pressed.

“I’m sure the stress of that night brought it on,” Harry interrupted matter-of-factly. “Anyway, what did Madam Pomfrey say?  Can we take you to breakfast?”

“Yes. I’m nearly ready,” she said happily, standing up from the bed and beginning to collect her books.

“Let me carry some of those,” Ron offered.

Hermione turned away protectively, jamming them all into her magical school bag. “No, thank you. I can handle them.”

Ron shrugged. “Alright. Let’s go. I’m so hungry, I could eat a hippogriff.”

Harry saw Hermione cringe at Ron’s choice of words.

“Are you children off to breakfast now?” Madam Pomfrey asked from her office doorway.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hermione called. “Thank you.”

She merely smiled and then disappeared back into her office.

“Let’s go,” Ron called again impatiently, already heading for the door.

Harry and Hermione fell quietly into step behind him and headed for the Great Hall. The three friends found seats at the Gryffindor table and started serving themselves from the platters of various breakfast foods and settled in to a quiet conversation about news from home, catching Hermione up on the latest from the Weasleys especially.

The first of the mail owls started arriving not long after with the much awaited newspaper delivery.

“Ireland made it!” Seamus shouted from further along the table, waving the Daily Prophet sports page triumphantly.

“Yes!  Britain’s got the World Cup this summer, and now we’ve got a team in the match!  It’s going to be amazing. Once in a lifetime!” Ron exclaimed.

“Who’s Ireland up against?” Hermione asked.

“Won’t know until the first week in July,” Ron said. “It’s Bulgaria versus Togo, winner moves on.”

Mail owls were still trickling in as breakfast continued and the unexpected arrival of an enormous eagle owl dropping it’s letter on Harry’s plate and flying off again pulled Ron out of his daydream.

“That’s some owl. Who’s writing to you, mate?” Ron asked curiously.

Harry slit the envelope open and unfolded the letter, his eyes skimming to the bottom where the Minister’s seal was stamped next to his signature.

“Well?” Ron pressed.

“The Minister,” Harry whispered so only his friends on either side of him would hear.

“The Minister!” Ron exclaimed. “What’s he want with you?”

All around the table, curious faces turned to Harry.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Thanks, Ron,” he said sarcastically.

“Sorry,” Ron muttered, blushing bright red.

Harry could feel all the eyes on him. It sent a shiver up his spine. But one by one, most of them lost interest when they realized it was unlikely he’d broadcast the contents of his letter. Feeling a bit better without all those watchers, he looked down at the letter again, this time to read the contents.

It didn’t really have anything to say about the reparations that Neville hadn’t already told him, but Harry took it as a good sign that Fudge was being smarmy towards him again, saying things like he’d “never seen a more deserving case”, that failure to levy the Blacks on Harry’s behalf sooner had been “a gross miscarriage of justice”, and expressing a hope that Harry would visit the Ministry over the summer so Fudge could show him around. Halfway through reading, he heard Ron snort and realized with some annoyance that his friend was reading the letter over his shoulder.

“That Fudge is really something,” Ron snickered.

“Ronald, don’t be rude,” Hermione scolded from Harry’s other side. She was pointedly looking anywhere but Harry’s letter, but couldn’t help but cast a sideways glance at his face every couple of seconds to try and gauge his reactions to what he was reading.

Harry gave a long-suffering sigh and said, “If you must know, I wrote to the Minister to thank him for visiting me in the Hospital Ward and to let him know that I’m doing much better now.” It was only true on the surface — a lot of what that letter was really saying had happened between the lines, but he wasn’t going to explain that in front of so many eavesdroppers.

“What’s he mean ’bout hearing from Gringotts?” Ron asked around a forkful of eggs.

Hermione’s eyes went wide hearing Ron and she leaned in and hissed, “He isn’t paying you off, is he, Harry?”

“No,” Harry snapped, horrified. That was one rumor he absolutely had to nip in the bud. “Of course not. He just mentions the reparations that the Ministry levied against the Black Estate for their crimes against my family.”

“But Harry, you know Sirius was innocent,” Hermione hissed under her breath.

“There’s no proof,” Harry whispered back at her. “Reparations had to be made; it’s the law.” Of course, it had helped that he’d mentioned it to the Minister and without that, it might not be happening at all, but he didn’t say that.

“But you could refuse them,” Hermione protested.

“Why would he do that?” Ron interrupted, sounding scandalized at the thought of turning down legally-obtained, free money.

Hermione gave him her best ‘you know why!’ look but he ignored it.

“The government should pay Harry after what he went through with the dementors,” Ron said.

“Hermione,” Harry whispered even more quietly than before, “he’s my godfather. He’d want me to inherit from him. This may not be ideal, but I don’t think he’d have faulted me for it.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She seemed to be considering it, but she still looked uncomfortable.

Harry was acutely aware that some of the Gryffindors had turned their attention back on him during the course of the conversation and it was making him feel very edgy. “You know, I think I’ll head back to the Tower,” he said.

“Are you sure, Harry?  You’ve hardly touched your food?” Hermione said.

In answer, Harry grabbed the buttered roll off his plate as he stood and made a ‘happy now?’ sort of face at Hermione.

The tingle on the back of his neck didn’t leave him until the tower’s guardian portrait closed behind him. Back in his dorm room, Harry jotted a quick note to the Minister expressing gratitude for his assistance and an interest in the tour of the Ministry he’d mentioned. He didn’t really want to visit the Ministry but he did need to keep the Minister in his corner. It looked like Harry had that particular problem right where he wanted it. Encouraged by his progress, he was able to really apply himself to the letter to Lupin that day and get a reasonable request to meet and discuss the map written.


	5. Friends

As Harry was leaving breakfast the next day, Gringotts owls arrived for Harry and Neville, each carrying a bundle containing the information and inventory of their reparations payments. They each took some time to read over the documents in their dormitory and then got down to business.

“So Harry, you remember that item we discussed?” Neville asked, grinning.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, turning to Neville with interest.

“It’s here. The goblins valued it at 120 galleons,” Neville said. “Can you give me that for it?”

Harry whistled. That was almost twice what he spent each year on school supplies. But for a Founder’s artifact and a horcrux, he’d pay it. “Yeah, I can do that. Do we just write to Gringotts?”

“There’s banking forms at the end of the packet,” Neville said, turning to the proper page in his own documents.

“Ah, I see,” Harry said, following suit. “Can you have the goblins send me the cup by secure owl?”

“Are you sure you want it here?  It would be safer in your vault, wouldn’t it?” Neville said.

“Yeah, but I want to see it first,” Harry said. It probably wasn’t all that secure having it sent to him, but he had to know for certain that it was another horcrux in his possession or he would worry.

“Alright,” Neville said with a shrug. They finished the paperwork and owled the forms

Now more than ever, he knew he had to get that sword. He got dressed and trudged to the library for even more technomancy books. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. As much as he read and as much as he wanted to understand, a week just wasn’t going to be enough time. He’d need help.

And then on his way to the library, he passed Hermione walking the other way.

“You’re just the person I was looking for,” Harry said, smiling broadly at her. “I hope you can help me with something.”

“What?” Hermione asked unenthusiastically, as if he’d pulled her out of deep thoughts.

“I want to learn technomancy. Mr Weasley used it to create his car and the Marauders made the map and its just something I’ve really wanted to know how to do and I’ve picked a project to work on but I don’t have the runes and arithmancy background to dive right in. You do though. You’re great at both. Think you could help me?” Harry asked.

For a moment, she didn’t react, but then she gave a tiny smile and nodded.

Harry nodded his head towards the stairs and led her down to the corridor just above Filch’s office. “I want to fix this. Peeves broke it last year by picking it up and dropping it from height.”

She stared at the cabinet for a long time in silence. Harry really started to get worried about her. This just wasn’t like her.

“Have you made a spell matrix chart yet?” she asked at last.

Harry shook his head. “Not yet. I practiced the charm last night but all I got was a faint blue light.”

Hermione’s brow wrinkled. “Let’s see how bad it is.” Hermione drew her wand and cast the spell to reveal the spell matrix. Blue-green lines twisted from the end of her wand and wrapped around the cabinet, crawling and twining, until they at last settled on the surface into complicated runes and equations. She inhaled sharply and Harry thought she’d tell him it couldn’t be done, but instead, she turned and said, “Do you have quill and ink?  Let’s start copying this down.”

Harry pulled parchment, quill and ink, and blotting paper from his school bag and he and Hermione sat on the floor before the glowing cabinet. Realizing now how long they’d have to linger here, Harry was glad to see that the only paintings in this area were landscapes and pastorals. He just hoped no one came by and saw them. “Can we keep this secret?” Harry asked Hermione, though he winced a bit as he said it, sure that Hermione would demand a full explanation.

But she didn’t even look at him, just nodded. Harry couldn’t reconcile that with the Hermione he knew, but then he realized that she may well feel just what he’d claimed to Madam Pince and Professor Burbage to explain his interest: she was probably just grateful for the distraction. I took the better part of a two hours, but no one came by. This was a disused corridor and it was a nice day outside so most students wanted to be outside and many teachers were busy supervising them but Harry didn’t like pushing his luck so when they finished copying and ended the spell, Harry packed his things up and said, “Let’s go to the library to look this over.”

Hermione nodded and rolled up the chart, stood, and waited for Harry to lead the way.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Harry had to ask as they walked. It was obvious that she wasn’t.

“I don’t want to talk about it now, Harry,” she said stiffly.

“Alright,” Harry said reluctantly.

But as soon as they sat down at a table deep in the stacks and unrolled the scroll and Harry pulled out the reference books he’d borrowed from Professor Burbage, Hermione had an intellectual challenge and enthusiastically threw herself into it. She disappeared into the shelves and came back with four books. She tried to explain some as she checked parts of the chart against examples in the books. She took out a quill and some red ink and circled several of the most obvious problems on their chart, then more slowly, they were able to identify half a dozen breaks on the chart.

When it seemed like they’d found all the obvious problems, Harry eagerly asked, “So can we fix it?”

But Hermione was still scrutinizing the chart. “Just give me a minute, Harry,” she snapped, here eyes not pausing in their intense focus as they flowed across the parchment page. “This is much more complex than anything I’ve seen before. I don’t know what half of these mean alone, let alone in combination. And the links between them... I don’t know, Harry. The equations involved must be advanced Mastery level.”

“Are you saying we can’t do it?” Harry asked, disappointed. If she couldn’t, the only person he could ask would be Mr Weasley and Harry doubted very much that it would stay secret from Dumbledore which would mean he could no longer use the cabinets to try to steal the Gryffindor’s sword.

“I certainly couldn’t create this, but repair it?  I’m saying I don’t know. Some of the damage is obvious,” she said, pointing to a section of the diagram where the structure looked like it had been blown apart. “But I doubt it’s all that clear. There could be parts of this chart where damage has mutated a rune or an equation so it doesn’t look wrong but it is.”

“So there’s no way we could get it done before the end of term?” Harry pressed, hoping she’d say that wasn’t what she meant.

“End of term? !  Harry, are you completely mad?  Maybe — and I do mean maybe — if we can find a diagram from another cabinet, one that’s not broken, we could figure it out in a couple of months. Not weeks, certainly not days!”

“If you had a diagram, couldn’t we just copy it?” Harry asked, thinking that since he knew where to get a working diagram, there might yet be hope.

“No two diagrams will be identical, though pairs made by the same technomancer would be similar. Even if you had this cabinet’s mate, there would be parts that are different, mirror images in some cases or at least mirrored expressions. But... they might have the same logic,” Hermione said.

Harry sighed. “I do happen to know where the mate to this is. We could copy its diagram down and then maybe swap it for this one and take this one home to work on over the summer. What do you think?”

Hermione considered this, then broke into a smile.

*****

When Harry was awakened from a lie-in the next morning by a nasty post owl delivering a horcrux, he knew even before he opened the box that it was dangerous. He could feel the tug of the protective enchantments on his mind, making the little gold cup seem so valuable, too precious to even contemplate damaging. He buried it deep in his trunk and the feelings eased.

Harry couldn’t wait much longer to buy the working cabinet. They’d need at least a day to copy its spell matrix and then he’d have to pull off the swap with no one the wiser. Harry Potter could hardly turn up in Knockturn Alley and he didn’t have any means of disguising himself, but with the Black House had come a house elf: Kreacher. His journal had a few notes about Kreacher and after quietly asking Neville, his only friend who had grown up with house elves, for some advice, he hoped meeting his new elf would go well. Harry asked Hermione to try and keep Ron from noticing he was missing that morning and then grabbed his Invisibility Cloak, the Gringotts key for the Black vault, and the cup horcrux stuffed into a pair of Vernon’s old socks, and headed for the statue of the humpbacked witch on the third floor near the Trophy Room. The map would have been useful and Harry was anxious wandering without it, but at least at the moment, no one seemed to be around and under his Invisibility Cloak, he slipped past the portraits easily.

“Dissendium,” he whispered as he tapped the statue with his wand. With a low grating, scraping noise, the statue slid aside and Harry stepped through into the dimly lit, cobweb hung tunnel.

“Lumos,” he said. Carefully, he proceeded down the tunnel towards Hogsmeade. If he was right, he wouldn’t have to get all the way to Honeydukes’ cellar before he’d be outside the Hogwarts wards but just to be safe, he walked as far as the trapdoor at the Hogsmeade end before he summoned Kreacher.

The house elf appeared before him with a quiet pop. “Someone has called for Kreacher?”

“Hi, Kreacher. My name is Harry Potter. I don’t know if you’ll have heard but the Ministry gave me 12 Grimmauld Place as reparations for crimes committed against me and my family.”

“Harry Potter, the boy who stopped the Dark Lord. Friend of mudbloods and blood-traitors alike,” Kreacher muttered.

Harry’s heart sank. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Harry said. “I had hoped we could be friends.”

In the wandlight, Harry could see Kreacher’s big eyes narrow.

“I am friends to purebloods, too, you know,” Harry pressed on. “I know your Master Regulus was a very good man. I want to finish some of the good work that he started and to do that, I will need your help, Kreacher.”

Kreacher was clearly suspicious, but some of the hostility left his expression. “Harry Potter knew Master Regulus?”

“I wish I could have known him and I hope to be a good master to you, like he was when he was alive,” Harry said.

Kreacher considered this for a moment and then sank to one knee. “Master Harry can try,” he said skeptically.

Harry smiled. “Very good, Kreacher. Before we go any further, I have a very important rule I need you to follow. Are you ready to hear it?”

Kreacher, with some difficulty brought on by old age, rose to his feet again and nodded.

“You are not allowed to hurt yourself, even in punishment, without a direct order from me. I do not like my friends to be in pain and I do want us to be friends, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher must do as Master commands,” Kreacher replied tentatively.

“I would also like you to take care of yourself, Kreacher. I would like you to have a nice, clean uniform and a comfortable place in 12 Grimmauld Place to sleep. I want you to choose what you like and I will only ask you to change it if it is unacceptable or if you are very naughty.”

“Kreacher can... choose?” the elf asked, seemingly unable to believe it.

“Yes, Kreacher. You can choose,” Harry said. “But right now, I have an important job for you. I have a deposit that must be made to my Gringotts vault and an item I want bought from Borgin & Burkes in Knockturn Alley. Can you do these things for me?”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher said. Then, beneath his breath, he muttered, “New Master shops in Knockturn Alley.” Clearly, he approved.

“Very good, Kreacher. This is the vault key. You are to use it to deposit this bundle which must not be unwrapped. That is very important,” Harry said, handing him the key and then the bundled horcrux. If Kreacher unwrapped the bundle and touched the cup, it would start to affect him. “Then I need you to go to Borgin & Burkes and buy the Vanishing Cabinet they have on display with money from that vault. The cabinet’s been there for almost two years at least and it will certainly still be there now. Bring the cabinet and the key back to me here as soon as you are finished with these errands. And one more thing: if you can manage this without letting anyone know who you’re buying the cabinet for, I would be very grateful. However, if it is just not possible to keep my name out of it, I will be understanding and you should not punish yourself for it.”

“Master knows Knockturn Alley is full of secrets,” Kreacher said. “Kreacher is doing these things and coming right back.”

Harry smiled at Kreacher and the little elf vanished with a small pop. Then Harry settled in for what might be a long wait.

The wait dragged on and on. Harry wished he’d brought something to do. As he waited still longer, he started to regret telling Kreacher he’d wait for him. He could have told the elf to take it to the Black House and then simply summoned him again when he had another spare moment later in the day. But he hadn’t... so he waited on. Nearly an hour after sending Kreacher, the elf returned levitating the enormous cabinet.

“Kreacher has returned. Man at shop was rude to Kreacher.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said. “I’ll take the cabinet from here and you go back to Twelve and remember what we talked about.”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher said. He waited until Harry cast his own Levitation Charm on the hovering cabinet and then he vanished.

Harry struggled to bring the cabinet up the long, sloping passage. It was heavy and the tunnel was barely large enough for the thing to fit without bumping and scraping. When at last he got back to the entrance, he hesitated. If he opened the passage and someone was on the other side, even wearing his Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t be enough with the great, big, conspicuous cabinet hovering along with him. He pressed his ear to the back of the statue, trying to hear if anyone was coming but he couldn’t tell if it was quiet or if he just couldn’t hear anything through the stone. He couldn’t stay there forever though, so he chanced opening the entrance and stuck an invisible head out, looking both ways. The corridor was empty. He hurried out as quickly as he could manage. This was a busy corridor between the Great Hall and Gryffindor Tower so he had to be quick. He hurried across the corridor and set the cabinet down in a disused classroom where it was least likely to be seen from the corridor. He had to stop and cast several cleaning spells to remove all the dust in the room so his footprints wouldn’t give him away. Then, at last, the hard part was over. He went to find Hermione.

Hermione was sitting with Ron and Ginny in the Gryffindor Common Room when he found them. He went to drop his cloak and key off in his trunk in his dorm before joining them.

“Hey, mate!  Where’ve you been all morning?” Ron asked jovially.

“It hasn’t been all morning,” Harry said seriously, “and I just wanted a little peace and quiet to think.”

“Well you missed a great game of footly,” Ron said enthusiastically.

“Footie,” Hermione corrected automatically.

“Right, that,” Ron said, grinning.

“How was it?” Harry asked, falling into the seat beside Ron.

Ron proceeded to explain, with broad gestures and several corrections to his vocabulary from Hermione, what he’d learned and then how their pick up match had gone. But soon, the twins called Ron and Ginny over and Harry spotted a chance.

“I think I’ll go to the library and get some extra revision done before we leave,” Harry said.

“You’ve got to be joking, mate,” Ron laughed.

“No, really. Hermione, are you coming too?” he asked pointedly.

“Oh, yes. Sure. You know me and books,” she said.

Ron threw up his hands. “Okay. See you later then,” he said and walked off to join his family.

“I’ve got it,” Harry said under his breath when they’d left. “The working one.”

“Shall we go work on mapping the matrix?”

“Yeah. I’ll show you where I’ve left it,” Harry said. Hermione grabbed her bag and followed him to the third floor classroom and they quickly got down to work.

It was easier and faster to map the intact matrix because they weren’t forever trying to find ways to represent broken bits or places where what was left didn’t resemble much more than an explosion of jumbled runes and number fragments.

“This is going better than the last. I don’t think we’ll have a problem getting it done and the cabinets switched before the Leaving Feast, do you?”

Hermione shook her head and kept copying.

“Good. Then we’ll have all summer to fix the broken one,” Harry said, inking his quill and starting his copying from the opposite side as Hermione.

“I don’t understand, Harry. How are you going to be able to work on this?  You won’t be able to cast any spells and we’re not going to be done charting the repairs so you’ll have to do that all by yourself too.”

“I’m not going to stay at the Dursleys’ for very long. I’m going to fix up the house I got from the Blacks. It’s in London so you’ll be able to visit and we can work on it together. It’s an old magical house so the Ministry won’t know when we do magic there. And if you need a place to stay for the full moons, we can fix a room up for you,” Harry told her.

But in response, Hermione snarled at him. “Don’t say things like that, Harry. You can’t know that. Your family might not allow it, or Dumbledore might not, or Ron might invite you round to his house for the summer. Don’t say things like that!  I can’t... Just...” She stopped herself and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Forget it. Let’s finish what we can,” she whispered sadly and then she picked her quill up again and got back to work.

Harry stared at her, shocked, for a little while but she ignored it and so Harry too got back to work. They would finish this over the summer and he would have 12 Grimmauld Place ready by the first full moon. He had a journal in his bag with pages of reasons he had to do it.

*****

The Leaving Feast left Harry feeling troubled. Sure, Gryffindor had won the House Cup and the feast itself marked another year at Hogwarts complete, but none of that had made him happy. He thought it ought to have, but there was so much hanging over his head, worrying him. He still had to swap the cabinets after curfew tonight and there was so much he had to deal with from his journal, he was concerned about Hermione, about their summer project, and about the isolation of summer at the Dursleys. He didn’t know how they would react. The last they’d seen of each other, he’d run away after blowing up Aunt Marge badly enough that the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad had had to respond to sort her out.

Harry waited until his roommates were asleep that night, then silently put on his cloak and crept out. Without the map, wandering at night was nerve-wracking. His whole body was tense and his ears strained to hear any sound. He jumped whenever a portrait snored and it got ten times worse once he made it to the working cabinet. Hermione had suggested he Disillusion it, and that helped with the visibility but it also made levitating it nearly impossible to manage quietly. He couldn’t hide the scraping and banging of its legs on the floor, especially on the stairs in the Entrance Hall. But he somehow managed to get to the broken one without waking up any portraits or being noticed by any ghosts. With the aid of several whispered spells, he moved the broken cabinet aside and Disillusioned it and slipped the now visible, working one into its place. Then he had to brave the Entrance Hall steps again to go back up to the third floor.

Harry nearly had a heart attack when he spotted Mrs Norris, nose questing in the air, slowly climbing the stairs one level below him, but he couldn’t let himself be caught now. He hurried as best he could manage to the statue of the humpbacked witch and let himself and the cabinet through. He stopped only to light his wand in the pitch-black tunnel and cancel the Disillusionment and then, fighting to control both the light and the levitation spells at once, he set off towards the edge of the grounds. It seemed to take ages until he could pull off his cloak and call Kreacher. He apologized to the elf for calling him out so late, but Kreacher remained surly as he took the cabinet from Harry and disappeared with it. Harry wasn’t able to relax yet though. Harry jogged by wandlight all the way back to the castle, covered himself with the cloak, and he strained to hear if anyone was on the other side. He risked opening the statue and quickly stepped through to allow the statue to close. He looked both ways. No sign of Filch or the cat. He hurried for the stairs to Gryffindor trying to be quiet but also quick. It wasn’t until he was halfway up the back staircase that he heard Filch encouraging Mrs Norris to track him in the corridor below. But invisible and with a good lead, he soon made it back to the Tower without being found.

He slipped back into bed breathing heavily and shaking with adrenaline and knowing there was no chance he’d get to sleep in this state. He eventually gave up trying at first light, got up, showered, and went to the kitchen to say goodbye to Dobby. He made it back to his dorm around the time that the last of his roommates went to the showers. After breakfast, it was time to board the train. It was quite a shock being able to see the beasts that pulled the carriages. A blonde Ravenclaw with her wand tucked behind her ear saw him looking back over his shoulder at them as they entered Hogsmeade Station and told him they were thestrals.

“Loony, Loony Lovegood,” one of her young housemates sneered in a sing-song voice. “There’s nothing there!  You’re just mad!”

“Oh wow!” Harry exclaimed, a huge, genuine smile spreading across his face. “You’re Luna Lovegood.”

“Well, yes,” Luna answered apparently unperturbed by both the hostility of her housemate and the very strange, slightly creepy reaction Harry had to hearing her name.

Harry blushed. He knew her, but only as a name in his journal. She’d made his list of people he could really trust. Somehow, she’d shown that she was a really good friend to turn to in troubled times. “Do you want to join my friends and me in our compartment?”

Luna’s face never lost it’s placid quality but she did hesitate to answer. At last she said, “Alright.”

The two of them found Ron and Hermione easily enough in a compartment with Neville.

“Harry,” Hermione said warningly, eying Luna as Harry helped her stow her trunk on the luggage wrack.

“This is my friend Luna,” Harry told everyone proudly.

“I didn’t know you knew Loony,” Ron laughed.

“Luna and I just met,” Harry said, glaring at Ron and taking a seat by the window.

Ron looked confused, like he wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a joke at Luna’s expense or if Harry was serious.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Luna,” Neville said.

“Well, any friend of Harry’s is welcome,” Hermione said a bit stiffly.

Harry cast a disappointed look between his two oldest friends. The train ride started out awkward and Luna just read from a magazine but eventually they did manage to all get along with only a minor bump along the way when Neville asked Harry if the cup had arrived yet.

“Oh, yeah it did,” Harry said. “Um, but I realized you were right and it was better to leave it in my vault so I sent it back with the owl.”

“Oh,” Neville said, sounding a little disappointed. “What did it look like?”

“Just a gold cup,” Harry said, shrugging. “Nothing really fancy. Maybe I’ll get it out sometime and you can see it,” he said, knowing that would never happen but not wanting to sound suspicious. He didn’t want anyone to know he was planning to destroy it.

“What’s this?” Hermione asked, curious.

“Just a gold cup I bought from Neville as an investment,” Harry said, lying through his teeth. He really didn’t want to go into details.

Thankfully, Neville didn’t offer any further information and the whole matter passed as Ron got out a deck of Exploding Snap cards and Harry needled Luna into playing with them. When they got off at the station, Harry said goodbye to Ron, Neville, and Luna and he and Hermione crossed the barrier to the muggle side of the station. The Grangers were waiting nearby and smiled and waved to Hermione as soon as they appeared.

“I don’t think I can tell them,” Hermione said quietly to him.

It took Harry a moment to realize what they were talking about. “You have to, Hermione,” he said, kind but firm. He could have told her that they probably already knew. That was the sort of thing Professor McGonagall would have made a home visit for. But he didn’t because she had to tell them herself, whether they knew already or not.

Hermione took a deep breath, her eyes still on her parents. “Alright,” she said.

“Do you have my phone number at the Dursleys?” Harry asked, trying to be supportive and also really wanting to keep up hope that he’d have some contact with his friend while he was stranded at the Dursleys.

“Somewhere, but maybe you should give it to me again, just in case. Do you have parchment out?  Mine’s at the bottom of my trunk.”

“Yeah, just a minute,” Harry said, setting Hedwig in her cage down and going to open his trunk.

He tore two pages out of his journal and passed one of them and the self-inking quill to Hermione. She scratched out her home phone number and then passed it and the quill back to Harry who wrote his number and gave it to her.

“Well, have a good summer,” Hermione said, sounding very tense.

“Yeah, you too,” Harry replied as she turned and walked purposefully towards her parents leaving Harry alone in the crowd of muggles. He put the quill back in his journal in his trunk and closed it. He was about to pocket the page with Hermione’s number on it when the Dursleys turned the corner. They spotted him almost as fast as he saw them and he watched their faces twist into disgusted expressions. Vernon in particular looked like Harry was the last person in the world he wanted to see.

“What’s that?” he demanded, storming towards Harry. “If that’s another form for me to sign, you’ve got another—”

“No,” Harry said, thinking fast. “It’s... it’s a letter from my godfather.”

“Godfather?” sputtered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t got a godfather!”

“Yes, I have,” Harry said, nodding emphatically. “He was my dad’s best friend. He’s been in prison for murderer for twelve years but he broke out last year and came to see me. I’m going to be going to visit him in a couple of weeks, once he gets a place to stay.”

“You’ll only be in our home for a few weeks this summer?” Vernon asked, squinting at Harry as if trying to see the trap.

“That’s right,” Harry nodded. “I can’t wait. My godfather is really very interested in my life. He wants to be involved, even though he is on the run.”

Vernon blanched. Harry enjoyed the reaction, even as his lying about Sirius upset him. Harry picked Hedwig up and set off towards the station exit with a little extra bounce in his step. That should keep the Dursleys in check until he could move in to the Black house for the summer.


	6. Can't We All Just Get Along?

Harry had only been back for a few hours and already, he knew there was no way he could handle summer with the Dursleys. They were leaving him alone and they hadn’t even taken away his trunk this summer and while he’d have been glad of those changes this time last year, now he wished it were different. Terrified by the godfather story he’d told them, neither Dudley nor Vernon would stay in the same room with him and Petunia wouldn’t speak to him or even make eye contact. It would be an improvement just to be alone.

“Kreacher!” he called quietly, hoping the Dursleys downstairs wouldn’t notice.

Kreacher popped in and Harry questioned him on the state of the house and what would be involved in getting it fixed up again, but Harry quickly became concerned that it was just too big a task to ask Kreacher to do by himself.

“I think I can ask Dobby to help. He might be too busy, but if he can come around, it will be a great help to both of us. Dobby’s my other house elf friend,” Harry explained.

“Kreacher will not!  Will not!  Kreacher is Master’s elf!  Kreacher cleans Master’s house!” Kreacher shouted angrily. “Nasty Master lied. Master called Kreacher friend. Master needs no other elf!”

“Kreacher, go back to Twelve, now,” Harry interrupted. Kreacher was going to get him in trouble with the Dursleys if this continued.

Kreacher shot him a look that clearly said Harry was the dirt beneath his feet and disappeared with a crack.

“What’s going on up there, boy! ?” Vernon shouted from the foot of the steps.

“Sorry!” Harry shouted back. He waited for the lumbering footsteps to return to the sitting room before he relaxed. Now he was certain he couldn’t leave the task to Kreacher alone.

“Dobby?” Harry called.

Dobby arrived immediately. “Harry Potter, sir, is needing Dobby?”

“Hi, Dobby. How is your job at Hogwarts?”

“Is being good, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said. “Dobby is liking it very much.”

“That’s great,” Harry said cheerfully. “I was just talking with the house elf I got from the Black Estate and he says the house is in a truly dreadful state. It sounds like its too much for him to do alone and I won’t be able to move there to help him for two more weeks which doesn’t leave a lot of time to get things fixed up before Hermione has to come and stay the night. Now, I’d completely understand if you can’t and I have no idea how much work there might be for elves to do at Hogwarts over the summer, but I thought I’d ask and you should feel free to say no. But could you maybe help Kreacher with the cleaning?”

Dobby smiled slyly at Harry "Dobby is being happy to help Harry Potter, sir."

“Really?” Harry asked, pleasantly surprised. “But won’t your work at Hogwarts take up your time?”

“Professor Dumblydore told Dobby to look after Mr Harry Potter sir during the summer.”

“He told you to help me this summer?” Harry asked with disbelief. Was Dumbledore worried about him?

“Well,” Dobby hedged sneakily. “Mr Dumblydore is actually saying Dobby’s job is to watch Harry Potter while Harry Potter, sir, is not at school.”

“Oh,” Harry said, scowling. But Dobby was utterly loyal to him, he was sure of that. And a clever little elf too, to twist ‘watch’ into ‘look after’. So Dumbledore was having him watched. Well, if you could count loyal Dobby as a watcher. Which clearly Dumbledore couldn’t. But was it for Harry’s protection or was Dumbledore still concerned?  “What exactly do you have to report to Dumbledore about me?”

“Dobby must say if Harry Potter, sir, is doing bad things or disappearing from his home,” Dobby said. So the Sorting Hat hadn’t convinced Dumbledore that nothing was amiss in Harry Potter’s head. Harry had to admit it wasn’t surprising. Someone like Dumbledore had to be cautious. And now, so did someone like Harry.

“So if I were to move to the Black House, would you have to tell Dumbledore?” Harry tested.

“This is still being Harry Potter’s home?” Dobby asked, looking a little nervous.

Harry considered that it was probably still a condition of the blood wards that he call the Dursleys’ house his home. “I think it has to be, Dobby.”

“But Harry Potter is not disappearing, is he?  Dobby is still knowing where Mr Harry Potter, sir, is being?” Dobby ventured slyly.

“Yes, I think if you agreed to work for me at Grimmauld Place this summer, you would definitely know where I was,” Harry said, a smirk growing on his face.

“Then Harry Potter is not ‘disappearing’ and Dobby is not having to tell Professor Dumblydore,” Dobby said definitively, smiling a big smile for Harry.

Dobby stuck around for a while and Harry introduced him briefly to the very unhappy Kreacher, but when Harry was called down to dinner, both elves left and Harry could only hope they would get along on their own.

*****

Over the next few days, the elves returned, sometimes at inopportune moments like when Harry was in the bath or fixing breakfast. Sometimes it was simple. He instructed them to very carefully box up any nasty artifacts and deposit them in the vault that Harry had inherited along with the house. He gave Dobby permission to give proper funerary rites to some stuffed house elf heads the Blacks had apparently considered fine taste in home furnishings. He gave Kreacher permission to keep a reasonable number of family mementos provided they were not dangerous. He put Kreacher in charge of equipping a room for Hermione to transform in and cleaning the rest of the rooms on that floor for him to use when he moved and set Dobby to making sure the kitchen was workable so he could eat when he got there. But other times, it seemed like the two elves were at each others’ throats.

“Dobby, be careful, okay?  Don’t trust Kreacher too much. I don’t want you to get hurt,” Harry told his friend one afternoon when they had a moment alone.

“Kreacher is mostly saying some nasty things and undoing Dobby’s necessary work, but Dobby is still happy to be doing this for Harry Potter, sir.”

“Thanks, Dobby. I really appreciate it. I owe you a lot,” Harry said.

But the worst was yet to come. The very next day, Dobby appeared in the middle of the lunch with Dudley and Petunia, frantic and rambling fearfully about the diary. He held up a silver locket at arm length.

“Harry Potter, sir, oh Harry Potter, sir!  Bad locket is bad, bad, bad!” he cried.

Kreacher was just seconds behind him, huffing and puffing with rage. He appeared right behind Dobby and punched him, grabbed both his ears and yanked hard, causing Dobby to topple over backwards.

“Dobby is stealing from kind Master Regulus!  Dobby must be punished!  Dobby must give back locket!”

“Kreacher, STOP!” Harry shouted.

Kreacher froze, stiff as a statue a knee to Dobby’s groin and a spindly arm halfway to grabbing Dobby’s long, thin nose.

“Dobby, go up to my room and get the Black vault key. Take the locket and lock it in the vault,” Harry ordered.

Dobby disappeared with a pop, leaving Kreacher to fall a few inches to the ground and topple over like a falling statue.

Only then did Harry realize that his aunt was shouting at him and his cousin was hyperventilating and trying uselessly to cram himself into a sheltered space half his size between the refrigerator and the wall.

“Shut up!” Harry shouted. “Kreacher. My room. Now.”

Kreacher disappeared and Harry fled the kitchen and ran up the stairs two at a time. He wrenched open the door to his room and slammed it shut behind him. Kreacher stood in the middle of the room, fists at his side, glaring daggers at him.

“That kind of behavior is completely unacceptable, Kreacher. That locket is dangerous dark magic. Regulus had to have told you that. I know he told you to destroy it and you couldn’t do it. That, at least, is not your fault. I can’t destroy it yet either, but soon I will have the right weapon for the job and then I’ll finish what Regulus started. Until then, that locket stays locked in the vault where it won’t affect us.”

Kreacher growled and quivered with barely suppressed anger.

“You need to try to get along with Dobby. If I hear that you’ve tried to punish Dobby again, I will be extremely angry. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher hissed through gritted teeth.

“I hope you do, for your sake and ours. Now you go back to Twelve and stay there until I call you again,” Harry snapped.

Kreacher vanished. Harry took a deep breath and tried to let it out slowly, hoping to calm himself enough to wait patiently for Dobby’s return from Gringotts. When at last he did appear, Harry was eager to make sure he was alright.

“Did it go alright at Gringotts, Dobby?” Harry asked. “The locket didn’t try to fight you?”

“No, Harry Potter, sir. Bad locket was pretending to be just a locket,” Dobby assured him.

“And are you alright?  Kreacher really got you hard a few times. Is there anything I can do for you?” Harry asked.

Dobby shook his head gingerly, his abused ears flapping lightly. “House elves is hard. Dobby is taking much worse. Dobby is being all better by morning, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Still,” Harry protested. “I’m so sorry he did that to you.”

“Dobby is not blaming Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is not blaming Kreacher. Dobby is asking Harry Potter not to make Kreacher hurt hisself.”

“Are you sure, Dobby?  I don’t like what he did and I might have to punish him if he doesn’t understand that he can’t go around doing things like that to people,” Harry said.

“Dobby will talk at Kreacher about this. Dobby does not want Kreacher to hate Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby replied.

Harry bit his lip and considered this, then at last said, “I suppose I can give you a few days to talk to Kreacher, but you MUST come to me if he oversteps like that again and if he’s still causing problems for you and for me after that, I won’t have any choice, Dobby. I’m responsible for him and I can’t let something like this happen again.”

“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby exclaimed and rushed to hug Harry around the legs. Then Dobby left without saying whether he was going directly to Kreacher or heading back to Hogwarts until Kreacher had had a chance to cool off. Harry hoped Dobby could work things out with Kreacher but because he sure didn’t know how to fix things if Dobby couldn’t, he also sent a letter to Neville asking for advice.

But Harry soon had cause to worry that he’d made the wrong choice. He called Dobby twice that day and received no response, then called Kreacher several times and was also ignored. He began to seriously worry that they might be too busy killing each other to answer him, but just as he was about to summon the Knight Bus and go to Twelve and check for himself, Dobby turned up. He didn’t seem to be mangled, bruised, or bloodied and assured Harry that he and Kreacher were getting along and making progress on the house. He was aware that Dobby was capable of deceit and could be lying to protect Kreacher, but since Dobby wasn’t the one at fault here, Harry was reluctant to press him.

But the next day, Harry returned from a walk to find that someone had left him a gift of several dozen maggots on his bed. His patience with Kreacher was wearing thin. Neville had replied to his letter with its plea for help and suggested that Kreacher might be testing him as a Master and perhaps Harry needed to show that he had boundaries and he enforced them.

“Kreacher!” Harry called angrily.

There was a pop and then, “Nasty Master got Kreacher’s nasty present,” Kreacher cackled happily.

“I don’t care what you think about any of us, but I will not tolerate your mistreatment of Dobby and I cannot keep any elf that I have to worry about stabbing me in the back,” Harry told him crossly. “Kreacher, punish yourself,” Harry said stiffly. This couldn’t continue and Harry had to make that clear.

Kreacher’s eyes narrowed and Harry thought for a moment that he would resist the order, but then he turned and slammed his head into the windowsill, once, twice, three times. Kreacher spun around and spotted Harry’s trunk, opened the lid a few inches and stuck a foot in the gap, then slammed it shut on his toes, once, twice, three times, four, five.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said, wincing in sympathetic pain. “That will be all.”

Kreacher pulled his foot from the trunk and let the lid fall loudly shut, glared at Harry and disappeared.

Harry sighed and sat down heavily on his trunk feeling terrible with himself. This wasn’t the sort of Master he’d wanted to be. Maybe he should have known better than to even try. Maybe he should have just given Kreacher clothes from the start. Slavery was wrong, of course. He’d been taking advantage of Kreacher’s bondage and of Dobby’s friendship for weeks now. He probably deserved Kreacher’s gift, he thought miserably.

“Dobby?” Harry called.

Dobby appeared almost instantly.

“I’m really sorry, Dobby. I should never have asked you to do this, or at least to do it without pay. How much gold do you want for the work you’ve done and the trouble its given you?”

Dobby gave him a confused look. “But Dobby is already being paid to help Harry Potter, sir. Headmaster Dumblydore is paying Dobby.”

“We both know he just wanted you to watch me and tell him what I’m doing. I should pay you for all the rest.”

“No. Dobby should not be paid twice,” Dobby insisted.

Harry sighed. “I suppose if you’re certain,” he said reluctantly, “but you don’t have to do it anymore.”

“But Dobby is thinking he and Kreacher is very nearly being friends,” Dobby said earnestly.

Harry shook his head. “Kreacher’s not your problem anymore, Dobby. He is clearly unhappy as my elf so I think the best thing to do would be to give him clothes and set him free.”

“Dobby is thinking Harry Potter, sir, said Dobby could try talking at Kreacher.”

“I know I promised to give you a chance, Dobby, but it’s clearly not working,” Harry said, pointing to the box of maggots.

Dobby scowled and snapped his fingers, making the mess disappear. “Kreacher is being difficult but Dobby is not giving up. One more day, Harry Potter, sir?  Dobby is asking for just one more day,” Dobby pleaded.

Harry hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “Alright, Dobby. One more day.”

And he allowed Dobby that day without calling either of them, but the next afternoon, he stood ready in his room with a t-shirt.

“Dobby and Kreacher,” he called.

Both elves popped into his room side by side. Harry surveyed them. Something was different.

“So... how are you two getting along?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Kreacher is still angry with Dobby for taking Master Regulus’ locket,” Kreacher said, but there wasn’t any of the venom behind it like Harry had come to expect from Kreacher.

“He hasn’t tried to punish you, has he Dobby?” Harry asked.

“Dobby and Kreacher was having many fights,” Dobby said, “but fights is being over now.”

Harry scowled. “I told you to come to me if there were problems, Dobby.”

“There is being no problems, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby insisted.

“Kreacher is learning that Dobby is a free elf and Dobby is happy with this,” Kreacher said by way of explanation.

“Did you want to be free too?” Harry asked, uncertainly. “I would—”

“No!” Kreacher shouted urgently. “Master’s Dobby is mad. Kreacher is knowing now, Kreacher’s Master is not keeping Dobby because Master does not like Kreacher. Kreacher’s Master is kind to be pitying poor, daft Dobby.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “So, you thought I was trying to replace you... but now you’ve decided he’s crazy... and I couldn’t possibly prefer him to you... so you’re going to humor him?” he pieced together.

Kreacher nodded happily.

“I do like Dobby,” Harry protested. “Really, Dobby, I do.”

Both elves nodded.

Harry turned to Dobby, a questioning look on his face. “Erm, do you have anything you’d like to say, Dobby?” he ventured warily. He didn’t want to start another fight here.

“Dobby is happy Kreacher has decided to be Dobby’s friend,” Dobby said cheerfully.

Harry looked from one elf to the other uncertainly. “So... that’s it?”

Both elves nodded again.

Harry threw up his hands helplessly. “Okay. If you’re both happy and not fighting anymore, I guess I’m happy too.”

“There is being one small problem, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said, looking sheepish.

“What?” Harry asked, feeling as if the other shoe was about to drop.

“When Dobby and Kreacher was fighting, Mistress Wally’s portrait was being destroyed,” Kreacher reported sadly. “Kreacher is allowed to punish hisself for this?”

Harry let out a sigh of relief. “Is that all?  I’m not upset about that. I didn’t know many of the Blacks so I don’t really care about a lost portrait.”

“Master is sure?” Kreacher asked with disbelief.

“Yes, Kreacher. It’s alright.”

“So Kreacher is returning to work?” Kreacher asked.

“Dobby must be getting back to Hogwarts, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said apologetically.

“Alright. Thanks, both of you,” Harry said.

Kreacher and Dobby disappeared together leaving the bewildered Harry realizing for the first time that the differences between house elves and humans went beyond appearance.

The change in Kreacher was astonishing, and it continued to improve. Whether it was due to his understanding with Dobby, Harry’s punishment, or the removal of the Dark influences of the locket, Harry wasn’t certain, but he was thankful that his days were no longer being interrupted by feuding house elves.

*****

Three days later, Harry recieved the long awaited reply from Lupin. The owl came to his bedroom window at dawn and he let it share Hedwig’s perch and water while he read the letter. It said Lupin had the map and now that he wasn’t Harry’s professor any longer, he felt he could return it but he wanted to come by Harry’s home to do it.

“Yeah, the Dursleys would love that,” Harry muttered sarcastically. _Maybe the Leaky Cauldron?_  he thought. If Lupin agreed to it, Harry could take the Knight Bus there. He didn’t have enough wizard money left to pay the fare both ways, but after the meeting with Lupin, he could go to Gringotts and take care of that. So Harry wrote a letter back suggesting a meeting Thursday at noon at the Leaky Cauldron. The next day, Lupin replied, agreeing to the time and place so on the appointed day, Harry was ready.

“I’m going out,” Harry called as he passed the sitting room where the Dursleys were watching television.

“Where?” Vernon asked suspiciously.

“London,” Harry replied. _Since when do you care?_  he thought.

“T-to see your g-g-godfather?” Petunia stuttered fearfully.

Harry smirked. “Yeah. He reckons he’s pretty close to finding us a place to stay for the summer. He wants my input.”

The Dursleys didn’t know what to say.

“Well, have fun while I’m gone,” Harry grinned cheekily, turned his back on their frightened expressions and walked out the front door.

He kept walking to about the same place he’d called the Knight Bus the last time, down on Magnolia Crescent. Then he held out his wand arm.

The enormous purple bus appeared with a bang at the far end of the street, barreling his way at speed. The driver hit the brakes hard and the bus screeched and banged and finally lurched to a stop in front of him. The doors opened with a hiss and a young woman with enormous brown eyes said in a thick Welsh accent, “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I’m Aderyn Crewe, the conductor of the day. Where can we take you today, love?”

“The Leaky Cauldron, please,” Harry said, bouncing happily up the stairs and pulling his money pouch from his pocket.

“Eleven sickles, unless you want tea and biscuits,” Ms Crewe said.

“Just the fare, thank you,” Harry said, counting out the silver and handing it over.

The day staff of the Knight Bus was hardly better trained than the night staff. The ride was a bit smoother, but they still had some trouble when it came to stopping. But it nevertheless left Harry’s mind free to wander and the longer the ride took, the more apprehensive he became about the meeting. He did need the map badly so this really had to go well. But it was probably too much to hope for that Lupin would just hand the map over and leave. The bus finally stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron and Harry and a few other passengers got off.

Inside, the pub was crowded but Harry searched the faces for Lupin. He found him in a corner booth and pushed through the crowd to reach him.

“Harry,” Lupin called him over.

“Mr Lupin,” Harry said evenly, masking just how tense he really was as he took a seat across from his former professor.

“It’s good to see you, Harry,” Lupin offered, smiling.

Harry nodded stiffly, earning him a concerned look from Lupin.

“How did you do on your exams?”

“Err, fine,” Harry said, shrugging. He could do small talk, but exams weren’t a very good topic. It seemed like so long ago that he’d taken them, not barely three weeks ago as it had been. “I got O and E marks on most of them. I only got an A in Potions and a P in Divination though.”

“Those are both difficult subjects,” Lupin said politely.

“I don’t think Divination was a good choice for me,” Harry said by way of explanation.

“Perhaps you should speak to Professor McGonagall about choosing a different elective,” Lupin suggested.

“Is that allowed?” Harry asked, keen.

“I don’t know for certain, but you’re only a year behind right now so it’s the best time to ask, I’d think. You can’t get what you want if you don’t even ask,” Lupin said.

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t considered it before but he really ought to ask Professor McGonagall about that. He wouldn’t want to take Muggle Studies, but either Ancient Runes or Arithmancy might be nice. Not having to make up new ways to die each week for Divination assignments would certainly be an improvement.

“What careers are you considering?” Lupin inquired.

“Oh, well maybe auror. I don’t really know though,” Harry said. He figured that was probably what he’d end up doing, being who he was. He couldn’t say he was looking forward to it with quite the enthusiasm as he’d had before his trouble with time though.

“Just like your father,” Lupin said, grinning.

Harry frowned. He didn’t like being ‘just like’ anybody— and at the moment, that went doubly so for any of the Marauders. The memories he had of their school days, of Snape’s death and the walk in the forest were never far from his thoughts now. “I don’t know. It’s just one idea. I’m not sure,” he said irritably.

“That’s fine. I only ask because some careers try to get recruits with OWLs in certain elective subjects. But there’s no rush. You’re young yet and there’s plenty of time to decide about careers.”

Harry nodded stiffly. The tension he was carrying in his neck was starting to make his head hurt.

Silence stretched between them, making Harry uncomfortable but Lupin seemed to be lost in a memory. He laughed unexpectedly and said, “I was just thinking of your father at your age. He always wanted to be an auror. He wanted the authority and he wanted to do good for people. For a while though it looked like he wasn’t going to get the marks. He was really pants at Potions, James was. At the end of our third year, Professor Slughorn, our Potions Master, stopped us in the corridors before the Leaving Feast, right as we were setting up our final prank of the term, and told James that if he didn’t get his marks up, old Sluggy would set him up with tutoring with Snape. James went as white as Nearly-Headless Nick, I tell you. It was brilliant. He swore then and there that he’d turn over a new leaf in his potions studies — and he did. But the best thing was, he was so enthusiastic, convincing Slughorn that he wouldn’t need tutoring, that the rest of us managed to get the prank all set up with Slughorn none the wiser and it all went off perfectly when the Slytherins came up from their dungeons for the Feast.”

Harry did not share his mirth, but starved as he was for stories of his parents, he couldn’t help but ask, “What about my mother?  What was she like back then?”

“Er, we didn’t know Lily very well at your age. Girls were another species at 13, and Lily in particular really didn’t like us that much,” Lupin said, finishing with a chuckle.

“Oh,” Harry said, disappointed.

Silence fell again, broken only by Lupin awkwardly clearing his throat a couple of times. Neither seemed to know what to say next.

Distressed by the lengthening silence, Lupin blurted out, “I’m really sorry about what happened.” He did look deeply sorry.

Harry forced himself to smile at Lupin, but the effect really more resembled a grimace. “Yeah, fine.” _Why’d he have to go and say that?_  This was even more awkward than he’d imagined.

The regret morphed into hurt on Lupin’s face and he said, “Harry, I have to say, I didn’t think James’ son of all people would have a problem with... you don’t do you, Harry?”

Harry’s eyes flashed with anger but he bit back a snarled remark about not being prejudiced when this was personal. He wouldn’t be goaded into blowing Hermione’s secret. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. “You put me and my friends in danger by not drinking that potion. Children, Lupin!  You could have killed us!”

Lupin gave a weak protest, “Harry—” but was cut off.

“One little potion,” Harry insisted. “Three seconds to protect the innocent, the defenseless.”

“You’re not being fair,” Lupin snapped. “I was in an impossible situation. I saw it all happening on the map and there wasn’t a moment to waste.”

“You knew the truth about him!  That he wouldn’t have hurt us!  You said so yourself that night,” Harry growled accusingly.

Lupin flinched like he’d been hit and when he spoke again, it was pleading. “I know I messed up. I resigned even before Snape outed me to the school because I knew I’d failed.”

Harry glared coldly across the table. “I trusted you.”

Lupin searched Harry’s face but why, Harry didn’t know. “I thought we got along when I was teaching you the Patronus Charm,” Lupin tried soothingly.

Harry closed his eyes as his heart ached. Somewhere in his mind were hidden memories of a future where he and Lupin were friendly and in this moment, he felt that loss deeply. But that future was gone. Now he had to look after Hermione whose future was so much more bleak than it ought to have been because this man hadn’t taken three seconds to chug a goblet of potion. At last, Harry opened his eyes and replied tonelessly, barely above a whisper, “It doesn’t matter. We’re never going to be the same again.”

The anguish that crossed Lupin’s face almost made Harry reconsider. But then Lupin stood abruptly and said, “James would be ashamed.”

Harry leapt to his feet angrily and sneered at the low blow Lupin had tried to deal him. “My father’s not here and I never really got a chance to know him. The cloak and that map are all I have of him and it’s bloody low of you to try to make me feel bad for that.”

Lupin favored Harry with an emotionless stare for a long minute. “No,” Lupin said, “the map is all _I_ have of your father,” and then he turned from the table and walked out.

Harry was struck dumb long enough for Lupin to make a clean escape. “Fucking Hell!” Harry finally cursed. This hadn’t gone well at all. And as much as Harry blamed Lupin for it, he also knew he’d been a fool. He’d let his temper get the better of him when he’d badly needed to stay level-headed. There was also enough blame to go around that Harry mentally added Dumbledore to the list for keeping Hermione a secret from Lupin. _I needed that map, damnit!_  His first impulse was to say ‘Fuck Dumbledore!’ and write to Remus to tell him everything. Supposedly, he could trust Remus that much... or he could have in the lost future. But he was so angry at that man. Hermione was a brilliant witch and she would have had a wonderful future ahead of her if not for Lupin’s carelessness. “Damn!” Harry spat. He needed to clear his head. Acting on impulse rarely served him well.

He got gold from Gringotts and then hailed the Knight Bus. He’d write a letter of apology to Lupin. Nevermind that he stood behind what he’d said. There was enough blame to go around so he would apologize for his share of it and see if he couldn’t mend the relationship with Lupin. It probably was the only chance of getting the map back.

When the bus dropped him off near Mrs Figg’s house, everything seemed perfectly normal around him. But as he walked home, he started to notice a strange chill in the air. His heart started to race and he and looked around frantically but, finding nothing, he felt silly for doing it. It was just a cold spot, surely not a dementor, not in muggle Surrey. He shook himself and hurried back to Number 4. His arrival was unremarked upon by the Dursleys where they were gathered around the telly, but up in his room, Harry found someone waiting for him.

There on Harry’s newly-made bed sat Dobby and he was looking very upset.

“Oh, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby wailed, “Dobby thought you was understanding. If Harry Potter, sir, had only told Dobby... Dobby is so sorry, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Dobby, calm down,” Harry ordered worriedly. “What’s happened?”

“Harry Potter disappeared!” Dobby cried. “Now Dobby is having to tell Headmaster Dumblydore!”

“Oh. Listen, I’m sorry, Dobby,” Harry said. “It’s my fault. You did warn me and I should have remembered but I’m not cross with you. It’s okay to tell Dumbledore. I only went to meet Professor Lupin. I don’t think I’ll get in trouble for that.”

“Dobby is so sorry!” Dobby wailed again.

“It’s okay, Dobby. I swear. I understand the position you’re in and I think you’re a wonderful friend to be helping me out like this.”

“Oh, Harry Potter is too kind to poor Dobby!” Dobby sobbed.

“It’s true, I do count you as a friend. I need you to pull yourself together though, Dobby. It won’t do for you to go to Dumbledore in this state or he’ll know something’s off.”

“Harry Potter is being right, of course,” Dobby said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his eyes and blowing his nose. After a couple of minutes, Dobby was looking none the worse for wear and, after extracting a promise from Harry not to leave home again without telling him beforehand, Dobby went to make the necessary report to Dumbledore leaving Harry alone to face the impossible task of writing to Lupin.

It wasn’t like writing to Fudge. No, there was no way he could get the map back if he wrote to Lupin the way he’d write to Fudge. But he wasn’t good at lying through his teeth and right now, he was absolutely livid at Lupin, so angry that if he wrote it all out, he would stand no chance of ever getting the map again. With Fudge, it was easy. He had things that Fudge wanted. With Lupin, there was nothing the man wanted but his acceptance and that wasn’t for sale. This was going to be horribly difficult. He though that he probably ought to tell Lupin about the source of the problem between them, both because Lupin would never understand what had changed between them without knowing that but also because part of the reason he was so angry with Lupin was that the man had been irresponsible to infect Hermione but there was no way he could do right by her if he didn’t know. Dumbledore be damned. The headmaster had no right to forbid everyone from telling Lupin, the one person who could have best helped Hermione to cope with the enormous change in her life. But it wasn’t the sort of news that could be delivered by letter. He would have to earn another meeting before he could say anything. And to manage that, he’d have to dig into the buried bubble of emotion he still held for ‘Remus’ . So with great effort, he started writing.

> _June 26, 1994_
> 
> _Mr Lupin,_
> 
> _I want you to know that I do regret that we parted_
> 
> _this afternoon on very poor terms I have had few_
> 
> _adults in my life who could care less what I thought_
> 
> _about them. I would have to be a fool to turn away_
> 
> _one who does. I fear that I hurt you with my words_
> 
> _and that I overreacted when you responded in kind._
> 
> _I was wrong when I said that a few possessions_
> 
> _were all I had of my father. I know you were one_
> 
> _of his best friends and until I said the things I did_
> 
> _this afternoon, I still had you as well._
> 
> _I truly hold no hatred for werewolves. I do, however,_
> 
> _struggle with those adults who put me in danger and_
> 
> _with those who shirk their responsibilities. I have too_
> 
> _many of those sort in my life already and I had thought_
> 
> _for a bit that you were another. But I realize that people_
> 
> _make mistakes and I should have listened when you told_
> 
> _me that._
> 
> _At the moment, I am still quite upset with you but I know_
> 
> _that you deserve better from me and I don’t want to lose_
> 
> _you. I hope I have not hurt you so badly that you never_
> 
> _want to see me again._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Harry Potter_

    He signed his name at the bottom, nearly two hours after he’d begun. He’d written this letter as if to his Remus, but Lupin wasn’t his Remus. It hurt so much to know that. He felt the loss of his old life so hard. He was so painfully alone here. And yet that wasn’t even the cruelest thing about coming back because worse still, he felt the feelings for people he’d known, but he could hardly remember them anymore. That was the worst. His heart ached for his Remus, his Ron, his Hermione, for people he now scarcely knew and people he’d yet to meet and might never now meet. He sealed the letter and sent it with Hedwig and lay down on his bed to mourn.


	7. 12 Grimmauld Place

At last, the day had arrived. The wards on Number 4 Privet Drive ought to be fully re-powered for the coming year, at least according to Harry’s notes to himself in his journal. Dobby and Kreacher had reportedly made great progress at the Black House and with the full moon less than a week away, Harry was finally ready to move to 12 Grimmauld Place. He left some of his old school things under the loose floorboard. It was just the Lockhart books and some bits and bobs but they were his and this was his room. He needed to remember that for the sake of the wards, so there it was. The rest of his belongings were packed into his trunk and dragged down the stairs where he told the Dursleys he was leaving. His relatives just seemed relieved to see him go and ‘staying in London with my escaped mass murderer godfather’ was more than they really wanted to know. Harry wondered what they must think, what with the midnight flying car rescue after his first year and his running away last summer after blowing up Aunt Marge. He’d have left the Grangers’ phone number by the phone just in case they needed to reach him for some reason, but he didn’t want Dudley making prank calls there and he suspected Uncle Vernon would only tear up the note and bin it anyway. So he just left and called the Knight Bus to take him to Grimmauld Place.

He was shocked to see someone waiting for him. “Hermione, what are you doing here?” he called happily as he disembarked.

His friend was sitting on the front steps of Number 12 looking a little red for her time in the sun but otherwise quite happy to be there.

“I wanted to surprise you!” she said.

“But, how did you know where... or when?” Harry asked.

“Silly!  You told me you wanted to come today after dinner and you’ve said several times that it was on a Grimmauld Place, somewhere in London. I know how to use a city map book, you know. It was in the index under G.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Almost an hour, but it’s okay,” Hermione said.

“You shouldn’t have,” Harry said. “What if someone in the neighborhood had made trouble for you?”

“Relax, Harry. They can’t see or hear us. The whole property and everyone on it is invisible to the muggles,” Hermione said. “A few people have walked by and didn’t hear me say hello.”

“Oh. Alright. Still, you could have waited and come tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to surprise you,” Hermione said smiling happily.

“You got your braces off,” Harry realized, seeing her smile.

“Yeah,” she said somberly. “Madam Pomfrey said I should, before, you know. Because they’d have broken anyways, with the change.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling bad for bringing it up. “Let’s go inside. Can you help me get my trunk up these stairs?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, taking the handle opposite Harry. The two of them carried the trunk up the steps and set it down outside the door.

Harry put Hedwig’s cage down on top of it and turned back to the door. Harry tried the knob but it didn’t turn. “Locked.”

“Too bad we can’t try an Unlocking Charm,” Hermione said.

“I doubt it would need a charm,” Harry said.

“Should we knock?” Hermione asked.

“Kreacher’s probably in but might not hear a knock. Try the bell pull,” Harry said.

Hermione took the ring on the end of the iron chain and tugged. They could hear a loud clanging inside, then silence.

“Maybe he’s not in. There must be errands to run, that sort of thing. I’d hoped he and Dobby would both be here but I suppose that’s a bit too much to ask for. Dobby really works for Hogwarts. He’s just helping me out this summer,” Harry said.

“So what do we do now?” Hermione asked nervously.

“I think...” Harry began, pulling his wand from his pocket.

“You mustn’t!  You’ll get expelled if you do magic,” Hermione warned.

“I already said it can’t need a spell or all the pureblood kids would get expelled just for opening their doors,” Harry said. He wordlessly tapped his wand to the knob where a muggle home would have a keyhole. There was a metallic click from the knob’s interior. Harry tried turning the knob again and this time, the door opened. But he pulled it shut again and the knob clicked locked again. “You try,” he told Hermione. “I want to know if any wand will open it.”

Hermione pulled her wand from her trouser pocket and tentatively tapped the lock. Nothing happened.

“Good,” Harry said, tapping it with his wand again and then pushing the door all the way open. “Welcome to the Black House, Hermione.”

He picked up his owl’s cage and one handle of the trunk while Hermione took the other again and they stepped inside.

“Kreacher?  Dobby?  Anybody here?” Harry called as he kicked the door shut behind them. The click could be heard again as it locked.

One pop from further into the entrance hall startled Hermione.

Kreacher said, bowing but remaining in the shadows. “Dobby is being at Hogwarts, Master, but Kreacher is here to serve Master.”

“Sure. That would be great, Kreacher,” Harry said, smiling. “Can you show us to my bedroom, please?”

“Is being this way, Master. Kreacher can take Master’s trunk?”

“Thanks,” Harry said, handing control of his trunk over the elf, who levitated it before them and led them up the stairs.

As they climbed, Harry could tell that they had been busy. For one, there were quite a number of voids where paintings and decorations must have hung for years as the paint and wallpaper on the walls had faded around them. A whole line of platter-sized circular spots followed the rise of the stairs as they approached the first floor. They continued to climb, passing by the whole first floor where three doors stood open revealing a drawing room, a sitting room, and a bathroom. It was on the second floor that they stopped and Kreacher turned into the very first bedroom and quickly set the trunk at the foot of the bed. Harry thanked him and took a moment to unpack Hedwig’s perch and then open her cage door, then turned back to Kreacher who had taken Hermione back out into the corridor to show her a door with several locks on the outside.

“This is being Miss Hermione’s wolf room,” Kreacher explained. “Master and Miss is going inside now?”

“I would like to see it,” Harry said, nodding. He stepped around Hermione, who was standing quite stiffly, and opened the door. Inside, the room was quite bare. There were spots on the wall where unfaded paint showed portraits and furniture had been removed. The impressions on the black carpet further suggested the room hadn’t been empty when Kreacher began the conversion. The curtains on the single window had been removed and a frame of closely spaced bars added on the inside to prevent the glass being broken. Now the only furnishings were a huge, fluffy dog bed and a water bowl. Harry hadn’t specifically told either elf to include those so he’d probably found them somewhere around the house. Maybe they’d even been Padfoot’s. But the sight of those things broke Hermione and she began to cry and just couldn’t be comforted. Harry ended up having to walk her to the Tube station and send her home to her parents.

Upset and worried, Harry returned to the Black House and asked Kreacher to show him where the kitchen was.

“You sit there, Kreacher. The Dursleys didn’t give me much to eat today so I’m going to make us something,” Harry said, pointing to the kitchen table. He then turned and began opening cupboards. He’d arranged with Dobby several days ago to have the kitchen stocked with food.

“Kreacher is not eating Master’s food,” the elf said, quite scandalized.

“Oh. Sorry,” Harry said, taking in the elf’s hurt expression.

“Kreacher understands. Master has been around Dobby and does not know better. If Master is wanting to make Master’s own meals, Kreacher is going back to Kreacher’s nest now.”

“OK,” Harry said, though disappointed.

Kreacher left Harry to his dinner for one. Afterwards, Harry wandered around for awhile, then did a bit of unpacking. His school supplies all stayed in his trunk but his clothing was moved to the wardrobe beside his bed. He grabbed Hedwig an owl treat from the box in his trunk and took a moment to fill her food and water bowls and fix them to their mounts on her perch. And that was it. The rest just stayed in his trunk. By then it was getting late and Harry decided to change into pajamas and try to sleep. He was worried that it would be hard to fall asleep in an unfamiliar place and he now wished Dobby had been around and perhaps could have stayed just so he wouldn’t feel so nervous but he knew that it wouldn’t have been fair to make Dobby stay and work a 24 hour day.

“The Fidelius,” he whispered in a eureka moment. He’d learned about it this past year at Hogwarts. He knew how it worked but not how to cast it and he knew without a doubt that on his safe house, he had to be the one to cast it and he would make himself the Secret Keeper. He could probably learn it with the help of some books and lots of practice but the books were unlikely to be stocked regularly or more people would know about the spell. He’d have to place a special order and that meant sending an owl to Flourish and Blotts.

Harry leapt out of bed feeling as if there wasn’t a moment to waste. It seemed he’d been feeling that way a lot lately, especially at night when he was alone. He wrote a quick letter to Flourish and Blotts inquiring about books on the Fidelius Charm, signed and sealed it, and sent it off with Hedwig.

“There. That’s all I can do until they get back to me,” Harry muttered to himself. He packed the stationary away again and returned to this strange bed. He lay there and forced himself to think about how much safer this house was than Gryffindor Tower and he hadn’t had trouble sleeping there. He made himself breath long, deep breaths as a relaxation technique. Even though he wanted to get up and pace, he made himself lay there still in the hope that he’d soon calm down again and be able to sleep. And as he lay there in the dark, he realized that this unfamiliar house didn’t seem nearly as strange as he’d feared. He didn’t remember the house at all and none of it’s sights or sounds had seemed the least bit familiar, but the smells he picked up now resonated with something locked away inside him. Those were safe, calming, just what he needed at that moment. Breathing them deeply, he slowly relaxed and eventually, sleep claimed him.

*****

Harry was eating breakfast and reading a newspaper article covering the preparations for the World Cup when an owl flew through the owl door set in the back wall of the kitchen, right up between the ceiling beams. It wouldn’t be Hedwig back so soon as the bookshop would surely need time to process his request. He was hoping it would be a reply to his apology letter to Remus. But it was Errol. The poor thing looked even worse than he had the previous summer. Harry hastily plucked the bird out of the air, relieved it of its letter, and walked it upstairs to Hedwig’s perch for a rest and some water. Then he sat down on his bed and opened Ron’s letter.

> Harry, you won’t believe it mate but Dad’s got us top
> 
> box seats at the World Cup!  Its going to be ace!  He got
> 
> a bunch so the whole family could go — Bill and Charlie
> 
> are even coming home for the match!  But Mum says she
> 
> thought she would stay home and give Hermione a chance
> 
> to go since she’s muggleborn and won’t have been to a
> 
> professional Quidditch match before, especially not such an
> 
> important one, but that’s not fair so I told her not to worry
> 
> about Hermione. She doesn’t even like Quidditch and
> 
> Dumbledore said she’s not fully recovered from whatever
> 
> happened to her that night. I think that’s daft!  You were
> 
> Kissed by a dementor and you’re fine. I mean what could
> 
> have happened to her that’s worse than that?  Do you even
> 
> know?  She hasn’t said a word about it in her letters, just
> 
> keeps telling me to do my essays like it’s a week til
> 
> school and not nearly two months!  I don’t know, but I
> 
> wonder if Pettigrew did something to her before he
> 
> escaped. It’s the only thing I can figure. I mean if it was
> 
> really exhaustion like she said, wouldn’t she be fine
> 
> now?  It’s been weeks. Anyways, looking forward to
> 
> seeing you mate. I hope your summer’s not been too
> 
> awful so far.
> 
> \- Ron
> 
> P.S. Mum wanted to send some food along but Errol’s so
> 
> old he’s practically a zombie and Percy is keeping his owl
> 
> busy with the most ridiculous ‘work’ for his new job at the
> 
> Ministry. Maybe this weekend he’ll be free and she’ll be
> 
> able to send you something.

 

Harry scowled at the letter. He did like news of the Weasleys, but Ron’s new attitude towards Hermione worried him. Harry wasn’t about to leave her out and he’d been thinking about the World Cup for weeks now, since semi-finals results had started to run in the Daily Prophet. It sounded like the Weasleys were already short tickets and wouldn’t be inviting him along either. But he could make his own plans and he’d include Hermione. That morning, he would go to the ticket office in Diagon Alley mentioned in the latest article. He set Ron’s letter aside. There was no need to write a reply until Errol had recovered enough to carry it. In the meantime, Harry grabbed the things he’d need to take with him to Diagon — his money, his trainers, a robe and wizard’s hat to wear once he got there. His wand he already carried with him everywhere. Then, he went back downstairs to finish his breakfast.

“Dobby!” Harry called. If he was going out, he’d have to tell Dobby beforehand, like he’d promised.

A pop echo-ed through the kitchen as Dobby appeared. “Harry Potter, sir, is needing Dobby?” Dobby squeaked.

“I’m going out. I’ll be in Diagon Alley buying ticket for the Quidditch World Cup,” Harry told the elf. “People might mention seeing me there so you should probably tell Dumbledore.”

“Harry Potter, sir, is good to be telling Dobby this.”

Harry smiled and collected his things. “See you later, Dobby, Kreacher,” he called as he climbed the stairs to the ground floor.

The walk to the Tube station was truly pleasant. It was a wonderful summer morning with excellent weather. The ride on the Tube wasn’t so nice thanks to the hordes of commuters making their way to work but when he finally got off at Charing Cross and walked back out into the beautiful early morning sunshine, that didn’t matter so much anymore. Just outside the door to the Leaky Cauldron, he unfolded the robe and shook the hat back into shape and put them on. As he walked through the pub, head down, no one paid him any special attention.

Tickets were being sold out of a temporary shop halfway between the pub and Gringotts but as soon as Harry was through the archway behind the pub, he came up onto the back of the queue. Before he joined, he bought a newspaper off another vendor, not the Daily Prophet which he’d already read but the Quibbler, Luna’s favorite. Fortunately, the queue was moving at a good pace but with it being so long, it still took time. Harry was through the whole of the paper before he’d made it halfway. He went back and read the stories he’d skipped and it still didn’t take him to the front of the queue. He made an attempt at the magical creatures themed crossword puzzle but had never heard of some of the descriptions of animals in the clues and had to give up quite quickly. There were still a dozen people in front of him as he turned to the back page to read the classifieds. Wizards were all a little mad and sometimes their classified were hilarious. With the sort of people the Quibbler must draw, Harry hoped for a bit of amusement to carry him the rest of the way through the line. As he got closer and closer to his turn, he read down the page. He chuckled softly once or twice but the only ad that really caught his eye did so for another reason. At the bottom of the ads page, someone was advertising a tent _without luxuries, but compensates with great security features._ That might be something to think about for the future so he tore the ad out and pocketed it, then tucked the rest of the paper under his arm. He’d bin it later, once he was done at the ticket office.

And finally, it was his turn. He stepped up to the desk of the saleswitch who’d beckoned. She rattled off a pitch about discounts for buying certain seat packages and then drew his attention to a laminated poster on her desktop on his side of the desk that had a color-coded map of the stadium with prices per seat for each section. From the map, Harry chose a section that ought to afford a good view for a reasonable price.

He’d just opened his mouth when he realized he wasn’t sure if Hermione’s parents would even be able to see the match. “Can muggleborns bring their parents to the match?” he asked.

“No. Secrecy is paramount at an event like this. The whole stadium will be cloaked with Muggle-Repelling Charms,” she replied matter-of-factly. “The campsites are open to muggles though. They could camp with you and just listen to the match on the Wireless from your tent.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll take two tickets then. Right next to each other, please,” he said. He wondered belatedly if Hermione’s parents would give permission for this.

The saleswitch sifted through a huge stack of printed tickets for the one color-coded with the section Harry wanted. She found two tickets for side-by-side seats and traded Harry’s money for the colorful tickets and a brochure of information the Ministry wanted all ticket-holders to know. “Will that be all?”

“Ah, you mentioned camping?  What’s that about?” Harry asked.

“Oh, we don’t sell the campground plots here. There are brochures back there,” she said, pointing to the back wall of the shop where brackets held all sorts of brochures. “The game will be very well attended and there’s going to be a lot of portkey traffic. It’s being organized by distance and seat. The overseas portkeys start to arrive as early as two weeks before match day, while local portkeys are being arranged in the week prior to the match based on location and ticket. Holders of the best tickets will be able to get portkeys on match day but I’d say most people are looking to camp though. It’s very likely the match will go on all day and well into the night and if you camp nearby you won’t have far to go to get some sleep afterward and then you can go home the next day. Also, the departure of the public is also going to be by portkey and it will take the Ministry time to set up the outgoing portkeys for proper times once the match ends. It could be a bit of wait, depending on how long the game lasts.”

“So will I need to rent a campsite for two weeks?” Harry asked, confused.

“Where are you coming from?”

“London. We’re local.”

“Then you can catch a portkey the morning of the match. The brochure I gave you with your tickets lists all the portkeys leaving from sites in Britain.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll still go have a look at those campsite brochures though,” Harry said, excusing himself from her table. The back wall was just covered with brochures: some about different campsites and some about how to use a phone and some about secrecy and some about passing as muggle. He grabbed several about different campsites to ring. The next problem was that he needed a tent. He’d have to owl about the Quibbler advert for certain then. With Hedwig still out on his business with the bookstore, he had to stop in at the Owl Post Office on his way back towards the Leaky Cauldron to send an inquiry about the tent.

At last, Harry was back out on the muggle street, his hat and robes bundled under one arm again. He took the Tube back to Camden Town Tube Station. He still had to make some phone calls before walking back to the Black House so he stopped outside the station at a payphone. Digging to the very bottom of his money pouch, he pulled out several muggle coins to pay for the calls. He noted with some frustration that he was running low and would have to convert some muggle money the next time he was at Gringotts. First, he rang Hermione’s house.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Hermione. It’s Harry. How are you?”

“Fine,” Hermione said, sounding cheerful again despite her leaving the Black House in tears the day before.

“Okay, good. Listen, I’ve just got two tickets to the World Cup. Do you want to go?  We’d have to stay the night, camping near the stadium but it ought to be an amazing match.”

“Of course I want to go,” Hermione said cheerfully. “I’ve only been talking about it all summer. My parents think I’ve turned sports-mad. They’ve known I’m probably going since I got home and they said it’s okay with them.”

“Are you parents planning to come then?  I mean, they can’t come into the stadium because they’re muggles but they could camp with us.”

“No, they don’t want to go. They’re not big on sport or the outdoors. Are we not going with the Weasleys?” Hermione asked.

“Ron wrote this morning. They couldn’t get enough tickets for all of them and us too. Hermione, I’ll finish making the plans, but I want you to make sure your parents don’t want to come along since we won’t be staying with the Weasleys.”

“Yeah, fine,” Hermione said dismissively. “Oh, oh!  The kettle’s boiling over. I’ve got to go,” she said and then hung up.

Harry sighed and clicked the button to end the call on his end, then turned his attention to the campsite brochures he’d grabbed. He picked one at random and then fed the machine more money and dialed the number listed. A man with a deep voice and an Inverness accent answered.

“Hi, I’d like to book a plot for the 25th of August.”

“Busy day, that. Just three plots left in my whole site. Here’s the thing: with so much interest, we’re not taking any one-nighters. If you want the 25th, you’ll have to book either the 24th or the 26th too. Payment in full when you arrive.”

“The 26th then,” Harry said. He knew Quidditch matches sometimes ran long and if this one didn’t, they just wouldn’t stay that second night.

“Name?”

“Granger,” Harry replied. No sense in putting Potter down when he could avoid it.

“I’ll see you then, Mr Granger,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Harry said and hung up the phone and then walked the rest of the way back to 12 Grimmauld Place already enthusiastically plotting the camping trip to the World Cup.

*****

Harry had a lot more spare time than he was used to. With Kreacher doing most of the chores and Hermione keeping herself busy at home, he made a lot of progress on his summer essays and still had time left on his hands so the next day while he was shopping for groceries, he decided to buy an electric kettle. It was one of the most important kitchen appliances in a British muggle home and Harry missed it. It would also give him the opportunity to try a different sort of technomancy than the cabinet, one that was less ambitious and possibly something he could manage on his own, with the help of some books he’d found in his godfather’s childhood bedroom, interspersed among motorcycle manuals and old class notes.

The first step, as Harry understood it, was to figure out what the muggle appliance was intended to do, as specifically as possible. The obvious answer was that it boiled water but technomancy required an understanding of the procedure as much as the result. So Harry wrote down the steps involved: you plugged it into the wall, filled the kettle with water, put the kettle on the base and pressed the button down, then electricity flowed through the metal coil producing heat which boiled the water quickly and then when it got to a good, strong boil, the switch clicked back up and the electricity/heat cut off.

“Right, now... each step has to be done either by hand or by magic.” He looked down at the notes and crossed out plugging it in, filling it with water, and putting it on the base. None of those needed to be done by magic and it wouldn’t need to be plugged in at all. So that just left figuring out how to make the switch initiate the magic, how to make the magic heat the water, and how to get the magic to stop when the water reached boiling. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” Harry thought, comparing it to cars, motorcycles, and Vanishing Cabinets.

He grabbed the rune dictionary and the encyclopedia of common equations and started flipping through and slowly, he began to construct a rudimentary spell matrix for boiling water by magic, then attached to its beginning instructions to start when the switch was flipped and instructions to the end to stop when the water reached boiling. He was just about to start enchanting the kettle when he picked up the box and noticed the safety labels. Belatedly, he realized he should also include an automatic shut off if the switch was activated but there wasn’t water inside so he had to go back to the books and look up how to do that. He found in a chapter marked “Short Circuits, Overloads and Cut-offs” in one of Sirius’ magical electronics books. Once he read the chapter and figured out what he was supposed to do, he had a functional spell matrix and he could begin the casting. It took a couple of hours and a bit of trial and error, but when he proudly set it on the counter at the end of the day knowing it would work because of some magic he’d done, he felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment and was glad he’d decided to give technomancy a try.


	8. Hermione's Transformation

Harry was quite proud of his work and showed it off to Hermione when she returned to the Black House that night to again inspect the room she’d be spending the full moon in. This time, she handled the task stoically, moreso even than Harry.

“Has Dumbledore checked in with you at all?” Harry demanded bitterly.

“No, but he’s a very important person with lots to do,” Hermione replied, her voice curt.

“He is not too important to make sure you’re alright, that you have everything you need. What happened to you was as much his fault as Lupin’s and since he’s forbid anyone from telling Lupin, as far as I’m concerned, he’s taken on Lupin’s responsibility too. And now he does nothing?  It’s foolish.”

“Harry, if this is too much trouble... I mean, I don’t want to be a bother,” Hermione said miserably.

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry snapped. “I’m just angry at him. He owes you better.”

“He’s made sure I’ll have Wolfsbane,” Hermione said.

“Snape is handling that,” Harry said dismissively. “And anyways, that’s not enough. You’re a child who got hurt through his negligence... not just that even. He actively encouraged you and me to put ourselves in danger and now he’s going on as if it never happened.”

“Harry, I’d rather everyone went on like it never happened. I wish I could go on like it never happened!” Hermione snapped. “Can we just not talk about this?”

Harry scowled but relented. “Fine.” It did no good to rant at Hermione about Dumbledore, especially if it just upset her. “Shall we work on the broken cabinet again. I’ve been reading some books.”

“Yes, lets,” Hermione said.

They worked for a couple of hours and made some good progress on the worst of the damage, had lunch, and then Hermione went home leaving Harry to amuse himself.

For the most part, Harry spent time researching the spell matrices for the cabinets though he wasn’t yet confident enough even with his electric kettle experience to do any magic on the cabinets themselves without getting Hermione to check his work first. He also started to tackle the weed-ridden back garden and answered his post. Worryingly, there was still no letter from Lupin. He had heard back from Flourish and Blotts and sent gold to cover the cost of the books they’d found for him but was still waiting for the books themselves to arrive. He’d also received further information about the tent for sale, letting him know it was a four person, two-bedroom, one bath tent with a small kitchen, furnished modestly but in good condition. The security spells included were designed to keep uninvited muggles and wizards from paying undue attention to the tent and its occupants, prevent most spells from penetrating the fabric of the tent, protect the tent itself from damage and theft, baffle all tracking spells, conceal the magical signatures of everyone inside, and a few other paranoid-friendly defenses as well. Harry had decided it met his needs and had made a deal with the seller on the price and was now waiting for the tent to arrive. He’d also replied to Ron’s letter once Errol had recovered enough to return home.

> _Ron,_
> 
> _The World Cup is going to be awesome. Top Box?  Wow!_
> 
> _But please, don’t be so hard on Hermione. She’s got a_
> 
> _whole year of exhaustion to come back from and we, as_
> 
> _her friends, have to support her, not second-guess her._
> 
> _And tell your mum not to worry about sending food this_
> 
> _summer. I’ve conned the Dursleys and this summer has_
> 
> _been better. They knew Sirius Black had escaped – it_
> 
> _was all over the muggle news last summer. I just told_
> 
> _them that he was my godfather and neglected to mention_
> 
> _the rest of what happened. Now they’re scared that he’ll_
> 
> _turn up and check on me. Maybe we could meet up in_
> 
> _Diagon Alley to buy school supplies this year._
> 
> _What do you think?_
> 
> _Harry_

    To this, Ron replied:

> _Harry,_
> 
> _Heh, great job with the muggles!  We’re not going to have_
> 
> _time to go to Diagon Alley this year – we’ll be way too_
> 
> _busy. Mum’s planning to do all our shopping for us. We’ll_
> 
> _see you soon though._
> 
> _Ron_

“Sept 1st is hardly soon,” Harry said bitterly. He wanted to see his friends, not just Ron but the rest of the Weasleys too. But it sounded like they had plans all summer. “Well, that’s alright. I have plans too.”

His tent arrived the next morning carried by a hired eagle owl, but with it being the day of the full moon, things were a little mad at the Black House so he couldn’t even pitch his new tent and test it out. He spent the morning dealing with an unexpected problem for Dobby, tidying the kitchen, and checking and double checking the potions cupboard. The old stock of potions that had come with the house had gone in the elves’ initial purge of dangerous things and since then, Kreacher and Harry had bought a wide range of the longer-keeping healing potions and extras of pain relievers, sleeping potions, and the various salves to heal bruises, cuts, and torn muscles that might be needed this time tomorrow. He filled the water bowl in the secure room and made up the room next door so Hermione could rest comfortably after dawn while Kreacher cleaned the bathroom on that floor and put clean towels there. Hermione might want to shower and Harry had let the state of the bathroom go in the time he’d been living there with no one else to use it. He fussed with a few more arrangements and then made himself go downstairs and prepare dinner.

It wasn’t until nearly 8pm that the Grangers pulled up outside in their car. Harry double-checked that his wand was in his pocket and then stepped outside and gingerly crossed his front walk barefoot.

“Oh my!” Mrs Granger gasped when he stepped off his property and onto the public pavement.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized. “Are you ready, Hermione?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, her lips set into a thin, grim line.

“We’ll be waiting for you to ring from dawn, so don’t be afraid to wake us up, love,” her mum said.

“I’ll come and pick you up whenever you want, alright?” her dad promised.

Hermione nodded and leapt at them, wrapping them both in a fierce hug. When she let go and turned around, she had her eyes screwed up against tears.

“I’ll just go get my bag,” she said and walked away from them all to get her overnight bag from the boot.

Mr Granger pulled Harry aside and whispered, “Harry, we really appreciate that you’re hosting her. I know she’s supposed to be safe to be around tonight, but honestly I don’t know how we could manage with a w-werewolf in our house. It’s just...”

“I know. You’re muggles and you’d have no defense if something went wrong, no fast access to magical healing if she hurt herself. She’ll be fine here though. We’ve set up a secure room and stocked the potions cupboard with healing potions just in case.”

“And you’ve got your wand?  If you have to defend yourself, don’t hesitate to use it. She’s our daughter and we love her dearly but if its your safety at stake, we’ll understand.”

Harry nodded once, face grim, but added, “It won’t come to that.”

“Nevertheless—” Mr Granger began.

“All ready,” Hermione said, coming around the car to join them.

Mr Granger gave Harry one last look that seemed to say both, ‘Remember what I said,’ and ‘Please, don’t tell her I said that.’

Then her parents took turns hugging her again, said their goodbyes, and got back into the car. Hermione and Harry stayed there waving as they pulled out and drove off.

“Shall we go in?” Harry said at last.

Hermione took a shaky breath but squared her shoulders bravely. “Yes.”

“We’ve made up the bedroom next to the secure room. You can put your things in there and, in the morning, we can move you over there to get some sleep,” Harry told her as he opened the front door and stepped inside.

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said, following him through the door. They climbed the stairs in silence.

“This one here,” Harry said, showing her to the spare bedroom.

Hermione nodded and walked in, set her bag down on the bed. She checked her wristwatch and nervously ducked to the window to search the sky.

“I’d better get—” she began, but stopped abruptly and leaned in to the window to look down at something she’d spotted outside. “Harry, there’s an elf with his head all wrapped up in your back garden,” Hermione called, sounding baffled.

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s Dobby,” Harry replied.

“But... why?” Hermione asked, bewildered.

“He’s been given ridiculous orders by Dumbledore and that’s his solution. If he sees you anywhere near me before dawn tomorrow, he’ll have to go tell Dumbledore immediately. Dumbledore will undoubtedly then turn up and ruin my whole summer and possibly yours too. Great, isn’t it?” Harry replied acerbically.

“I’m sorry for all this trouble,” Hermione said, looking down at Dobby and frowning.

“It’s not your fault Dumbledore’s being completely unfair and unreasonable. He didn’t give a rat’s arse about the danger of his precious Boy Who Lived being around a transformed werewolf last month, did he?  And you’ve already taken the Wolfsbane! ” Harry said angrily.

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Hermione replied stubbornly.

Harry ground his teeth together. He would not snap at her. She was a child and she was in a delicate emotional state right now, but it did irritate him that Hermione persisted in defending the man who’d sent her on the wild goose chase that got everyone into this mess in the first place.

After a few moments of silence, Hermione said, “Can I have some privacy, please?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Harry said, drawn from his internal raging. He hastily left the room, closing the door behind him and hovered in the corridor waiting.

A few minutes later, Hermione opened the door. She was now wearing only a purple bathrobe. Behind her, Harry could see her overnight bag on the night stand open, her clothes neatly folded and packed away. Her shoes sat side-by-side on the floor, toes tucked under the nightstand precisely the same amount, the laces still tied.

“Right, let’s get you...” Harry began.

Hermione nodded and pushed past him, scurrying into the room next door. “Lock me in and don’t open it until dawn. Don’t open it then, even. Just knock and don’t unlock it until I answer, in a human voice, and say its okay,” she chattered, so nervous she was shaking.

“Of course, Hermione,” Harry said, trying to sound calm and reassuring.

“And have your wand out when you do open the door, just in case,” Hermione added, her voice quivering with the vibrations of her body.

Harry reached out and held both of her shoulders firmly. He couldn’t just watch her shake so badly and do nothing. “We’ll both be fine,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

After a moment, she nodded and backed into the room. Harry reached out and pulled it shut, then began turning the locks and hooking the chains into their mounts, then he went into his own room.

It was still hours before he normally went to bed and he’d thought he could make some more progress on his summer assignments for school but he’d been mistaken. He was too worried to study. He found himself reading the same sentence over and over and still not knowing what he’d read. He gave up and packed all his school supplies back into his trunk. A glance at his watch showed 43 minutes to moonrise.

Harry paced back and forth before the window. The sunset was beautiful, bright pinks and vibrant oranges, cut across by fluffy clouds. 30 minutes to moonrise.

The oranges and pinks had mostly faded to purple now. Harry stepped away from the window long enough to change into pajamas. 23 minutes to moonrise.

He still needed to visit the loo before bed, assuming he would even be able to sleep tonight. It was looking increasingly unlikely, but he was used to sleepless nights. If he couldn’t sleep, well he’d just lay awake and jump at imagined shapes in the swirling darkness... like usual. He took care of his evening ablutions and returned to his room, locking the knob of his own door behind him. 12 minutes to moonrise.

He lay down on his bed. He wanted to sleep tonight so he’d be rested tomorrow and better able to help Hermione. 4 minutes to moonrise.

It started with quick, heavy breathing. Harry’s eyes shot open and he checked his watch. 2 minutes to moonrise and it was already affecting her. He remembered how Lupin’s change had begun. Sirius had recognized the signs, even before Lupin’s skin had begun to ripple.

Moonrise. Harry was sitting huddled in a ball on his bed, hands pressed tightly over his ears. There was nothing he could do for her. She was screaming in pain and he could do nothing to help her.

The screams continued, but even with his head buried under his pillow, Harry could hear that they were now modulating oddly as her throat changed and her mouth lengthened. Slowly, the screaming turned into howling. 1 minute after moonrise.

It was quiet. Harry pulled the pillow from his head. No, it wasn’t quiet. There were still little whimpers periodically. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and uncurled his body enough to roll onto his back. 2 minutes after moonrise.

Slowly, they stopped. Maybe she’d fallen asleep. Harry wished her good dreams. He doubted very much that he’d get any real rest.

All through the night, Harry lay in the dark. He probably drifted in and out of a shallow sleep but every little noise or every time he thought he heard a noise, he’d startle awake. It made for a very rough night.

Howling.

Harry was jerked from his cruel imitation of sleep. He opened his eyes to find it still quite dark. This time, he knew what was coming. He buried his head in his pillow again and waited out the screams He didn’t remove it again until the first light of sunrise began to peak through his window. In the dim gray light, he checked his watch. A bit after 5. He was exhausted, but it would be nothing compared to what Hermione must be feeling. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leveraged himself upright. He grabbed his wand from under his pillow, stood, and stretched, and shuffled to the door. He listened, but it had gone silent. He unlocked and opened his door and crossed the hall.

“Hermione?” he called, knocking lightly on her door.

He thought he heard a shuffling but no response so he tried again.

“Hermione?”

“Come,” he heard it, but it was barely a whisper.

He set to work at the locks. The chains came down, the bolts were withdrawn, and at last he opened the door. He entered the shadowy room with his wand drawn, as Hermione had requested and as he himself thought was a reasonable safety measure. When he saw her, he was torn by relief and pity. She was lying in a heap on the floor, a few cuts and bruises and blood matted into the hair at her right temple but she had been well enough to crawl to her discarded robe and put it on, then prop herself in a sitting position against the wall.

“Here,” Harry said, kneeling and threading his arm beneath one of hers and around her back. With some difficulty and much reliance on Harry’s support, she was able to pull herself to her feet.

“Shower,” she rasped, barely above a whisper. She winced and brought a hand up to rub her sore throat. Harry saw that the nails were torn and stained with blood.

“Are you well enough to stand for one?” Harry asked, quite certain the answer was no.

“Bath,” she replied.

“Alright, I suppose, but only a few inches of water,” Harry warned and altered course for the bathroom.

Inside, he helped her into the tub. She was still wearing her robe, but he didn’t want her to try climbing in by herself. She could easily slip and crack her skull in the state she was in. He took a towel from the cupboard and hung it on the rack at the back of the shower, then closed the curtain. He heard her shuffle a little bit and then her hand reached around the edge of the curtain and passed him the robe.

“Do I take this to your room?  Or do you want it when you get out?”

“Room,” Hermione rasped over the water, then whimpered at the strain on her throat.

“Alright. I’ll get some potions ready,” he said and turned to leave her to her bath.

Harry stopped to toss the robe at her overnight bag and then continued downstairs towards the potions cupboards.

On the ground floor, he met Kreacher, just coming up from the kitchen to find Harry. “Master, sir is needing Kreacher?”

“Yes. Hermione needs potions. Can you help me find the right ones?”

Kreacher nodded and followed Harry down the stairs to the basement.

“She’s worn her throat out screaming. Do we have anything for that?” Harry asked, opening the first cupboard.

Kreacher pointed to one of the bottles on the third shelf. “This is being it.”

Harry picked up the bottle. _All-Purpose Throat Elixir_ , he read. “Alright. I also need something for her pain, and salves for cuts and bruises.”

Between the two of them, they soon had all the bottles they needed and a dosing cup too, closed up the cupboards, and went back upstairs. Hermione was still in the bath so Harry took the potions into her bedroom and started measuring out the dose for the throat elixir.

“Kreacher, can you put this back in the cupboard please?” Harry asked, passing the rest of the Throat Elixir over and taking the tube of Bruise Balm from the house elf. “Thanks. You should go and tell Dobby it’s after dawn and he can go report to Dumbledore now.”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher said. He lurched off towards the cupboard with the bottle as Harry went quickly back upstairs.

He was only halfway up the stairs when he heard the crying and hurried to find that Hermione was sobbing in the bath. He hesitated, then went to stand just outside the open door. The shower curtain was still closed, hiding Hermione from view but he still didn’t feel comfortable entering the bathroom. Instead, he hovered in the corridor and called out to her.

“Are you okay?”

It probably wasn’t the best thing to say but he blamed his lack of sleep. Her crying grew louder in response. He figured he should probably leave her be if he was only going to make it worse.

“I’ll just go, Hermione. I’ll leave the potions in your room. Let me know when you’re ready to walk to the payphone and ring your parents.” And then he hastily retreated.

When he went to check on Hermione again, she was sitting on the edge of the bed he’d made up for her, dressed and smelling of the salves he’d given her. She was staring motionless at her hands, no longer crying but eerily still and quiet. Her hairbrush was hanging abandoned in a tangle of bushy hair at the side of her head. She didn’t look up when he came to stand in her doorway.

“Hermione?”

She lifted her head very, very slowly and looked at him with such an expression of hopelessness that Harry’s stomach ached seeing it.

“It’s gone,” she whispered, her gaze returning to the floor.

“What is?” Harry asked, confused, as he went to sit on the bed behind her.

“My future,” she whispered without emotion.

“It is not,” Harry snapped. “You’re brilliant and you’re brave. I know you, Hermione, so don’t try to tell me shite like that, because it’s not true.” Even as he said the harsh words, he gently untangled the brush from her hair.

Hermione took his scolding dispassionately.

“Here,” he said, handing the brush back. “I have to get dressed.” He left her alone and went to his own room.

When Harry returned, he found Hermione finishing up brushing out her hair. “Ready to ring your parents?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly. She stood and carefully placed the hairbrush into her overnight bag and then she and Harry walked to the nearest payphone and she rung her parents.

“Hi, Mum... Yeah, I’m alright. Just tired... Yeah... Can he?  Or is it too early?  I could stay and take a nap here if it’s too early... Okay... Twenty minutes... Right... Okay... Love you too. Bye.”

“So, twenty minutes?” Harry asked as they walked back.

“Yeah. Time enough for tea and a quick breakfast?” she asked hopefully.

“Whatever you want,” Harry said.

“Do you have any meat?  I have the strongest craving for rabbit right now, but any meat would do,” Hermione said.

“There’s a bit of steak left over from dinner last night,” Harry said.

“Excellent,” Hermione said. “I suppose Kreacher’s nice to have around.”

“I’ll have you know, I made that steak myself,” Harry said.

“Really?  Are you sure it’s edible?” Hermione teased lightly.

“Oy!  I’m a good cook!  I cook all the time!” Harry cried indignantly.

“Alright, alright!” Hermione said, laughing.

Harry smiled at his young friend, happy that she was feeling good enough to tease him again. By then, they were back at the front door of the Black House and Harry let them in with his wand. “You go up and get your things. I’ll get the steak. What do you want to drink?”

“Earl Grey, please, with two sugars,” Hermione said.

“Alright. We can eat in the formal dining room so we’ll see when your parents get here,” Harry said.

“Okay,” Hermione said and headed upstairs.

It didn’t take long for Harry and Kreacher to put together some breakfast on a tray to take up to the formal dining room. Just as he was headed up the basement stairs though, a huge owl arrived carrying a large package which it dropped on the table. It made two circuits of the huge room and then flew back out the owl door. He passed the tray off to Kreacher and unwrapped the package. Inside were the three books on the Fidelius he’d ordered. But he couldn’t linger over them just yet. He took the tray upstairs.

Hermione was too polite to talk with her mouth full so for awhile, they ate in silence.

“They’re here,” Hermione said suddenly, then grabbed the last piece of steak as she stood.

Harry saw the Grangers in their parked car looking from Number 11 to Number 13. “So they are,” he said, standing. He checked again that his wand was in his pocket, then he and Hermione went outside.

When they appeared to Hermione’s parents at the end of Harry’s front walk, both elder Grangers jumped.

“I don’t know that we’ll ever get used to that,” Mrs Granger said shakily.

“Mum, Dad,” Hermione said, running to each in turn and wrapping them in a hug.

“So you really are a...” Mrs Granger asked.

“I told you—” Hermione said, scowling at her mother.

“I know, but there was a chance until you actually changed,” Mrs Granger said.

“No, there wasn’t. I told you the school matron said I showed all the signs of infection after I was attacked,” Hermione snapped.

“Ladies, please,” Mr Granger interrupted. “Can we just be glad that everyone’s fit and well this morning?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just early and you know I’m not a morning-person,” Mrs Granger said.

“Let’s go home,” Hermione said, going to the nearest rear door. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

“Alright,” Mrs Granger said, sitting back in her seat.

“Thank you, Mr Potter,” Mr Granger said, before he too took his seat at the wheel.

“Bye, Harry. Thanks for everything,” Hermione said, then opened her door, tossed her overnight bag in and climbed in after it.

“Yeah, bye,” Harry said as the last door closed and Mr Granger started the car.

As the Grangers pulled away, Harry went inside. Kreacher had already cleaned away the breakfast dishes, and as Harry passed on the way to his bedroom, he saw the elf already at work tidying the room Hermione had spent the night in.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry told him, then slipped into his bedroom for a nap.

*****

Over the next several days, Harry spread out the books he’d ordered on the floor of the Drawing Room along with an odd assortment of bits and bobs he’d found around the house, none of which, according to Dobby, were the least bit hidden, not even a little shimmery. This was great disappointment to Harry after three days of near-constant reading and nearly 30 hours of practice on the Fidelius Charm. Harry sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Damn," he cursed. This had to work. He couldn’t afford to rely on anyone else for the security of this house. He had to master this charm. _But not right now,_ he thought, looking at his watch which now read 12:34am. It was time for bed.

Only three hours later...

“Oh god!” Harry groaned, bolting upright in bed, kicking furiously at the firm hold his bedding had on his legs. In his dream, they’d been Inferi grabbing him and pulling him into the water. He’d been in a cave full of them, and Dumbledore had been there but something had been wrong with him. Harry was breathing heavily, his heart was racing and his hair had been plastered to his forehead with sweat. Harry shook his head to clear the nightmare. It had all felt so real. There’d be no more sleeping tonight, he was sure.

Harry extricated himself from his bedding and went down the corridor to the bathroom, but when he returned, he felt little better. He checked his watch: 3:41am. He groaned. Too late for a sleeping potion and too early to start the day.

He lit the lamp so the room was flooded with a soft, warm glow, the flame casting dancing shadows through the room. It helped, but he also wanted to get his mind off the dream.

“I should write to Lupin,” he decided, so he got his stationary set from his trunk. _But what should I say?_  

His eyes flicked to the album sitting at the top of his open trunk. It contained all the pictures he had to remember his parents and his godfather — some of the only positive images he had of them to balance out the memories that haunted him. They were important to him. But Lupin had said the map was the only thing he had left of James and Harry’s ultimate goal with Lupin was to earn that map back. For a long time, Harry flipped through the photo album. Eventually, he decided he could part with a photo of the four Marauders, their heads bent over some books in the library. Whether they were actually revising was debatable as they looked up periodically to make sure no one was eavesdropping. So he wrote a short letter, then folded it around the photo sealed it with wax. As soon as Hedwig returned, he’d send it and hopefully this time, Lupin would respond.

It was still dark, still several hours before he could ring Hermione. He wondered if he could try sleeping again so he laid down and closed his eyes. But as soon as his eyes shut, the images of that nightmare returned. He gave up, sat up, and grabbed his Potions essay. Eventually, the sun started to come up and Harry got up and took a shower and had breakfast but was still lagging after his troubled night.


	9. Out and About

“Hello?” Hermione’s voice asked from the other end of the phone line. She hadn’t been over to visit in several days so Harry had walked to the payphone to find out if she wanted to come over and maybe work on the cabinet some more.

“Hi, Hermione. It’s Harry. Are you coming over today?” Harry asked.

“Oh, I’m so glad you rang!  Will you go to Diagon Alley with me?” Hermione said excitedly.

“Today?” Harry asked unenthusiastically.

“Yes!” Hermione insisted.

“I don’t know, Hermione. Shopping?  We have the cabinet to work on,” Harry said. “Can we go another day?”

“Please, Harry!” Hermione begged.

“Well, I don’t mind if you go shopping. We don’t have to meet up today,” Harry said dully.

“Mum doesn’t want me going alone,” Hermione said, her voice colored with a scowl.

“Why not?” Harry wondered. “You’re allowed to visit here alone all the time.”

“Yeah, but Mum knows you don’t care,” Hermione muttered.

“What?” Harry didn’t understand.

“That I’m a werewolf,” Hermione snapped. “She thinks as long as I’m with you, no one will bother me about it.”

“But no one else knows,” Harry said.

“I know!” Hermione whined in frustration, probably at her mother. “I keep telling her but she’s a muggle; she doesn’t understand.”

Harry raised one eyebrow. He’d never have expected that sentence to come out of Hermione’s mouth.

“Alright, fine. I need to go to Gringotts anyway. I’m almost out of muggle money. I’ll meet you outside Charing Cross Tube Station in fifteen or twenty minutes, okay?”

Hermione squealed happily prompting Harry to yank the phone away from his ear wincing. “Thank you, Harry. Thank you.”

“Yeah, bye,” Harry said.

The trip to Charing Cross was short and he ended up waiting for a while on a bench outside the station for Hermione to show up.

When she finally appeared at the station exit, she spotted Harry right away and came bounding up to him happily.

“Gringotts first?” Hermione asked as Harry got up and they walked towards the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t care as long as we get there eventually.”

“Well I have to change the money my parents gave me today for books,” Hermione said.

“Alright.”

So they went to Gringotts first and afterwards, Hermione said excitedly, “Race you to the bookstore!”

Harry grabbed her arm before she could run off. “I thought the point of my being here was that you would stay close,” he said.

Hermione’s face fell. “I just want to run,” she said, pouting.

“Not here, Hermione,” Harry said, sounding very tired compared to Hermione’s energy.

Hermione agreed reluctantly. “Alright, fine. Let’s walk to the bookstore.”

At Flourish and Blotts, Hermione whizzed around eagerly. Harry drifted through the store, browsing. He took a bit of time to flip through some books on arithmancy and runes but didn’t find anything that looked helpful for their cabinet repairs. After Hermione paid for her books, Harry had thought she’d be eager to get home and read but they decided to wander the Alley for a bit longer and each of them bought some things they needed. Hermione wanted parchment and ink in particular. Harry saw a half-price sale on off-the-rack muggle-style clothing and chose a few articles to replace some of his Dursley cast offs. After that, they headed back to Grimmauld Place, but just as they turned the corner, there was a figure climbing the front steps of Number 12 and something about the way the house at the end of the streets just shifted at the corner of his vision suggested that they’d only just missed seeing the Knight Bus driving away.

“Hermione, would you carry this for me so I can get my wand?”Harry asked.

His strained tone earned a strange look. She took one of the bags from the clothiers.

Harry shifted the other bag to his left hand and drew his wand. They were nearly close enough now to see who had come to visit. Just a few more steps. Harry relaxed. The figure on the steps would have been more familiar in a white apron and hat than in purple robes but the frizzy red and gray hair and the wrinkled, friendly face beneath it were familiar enough and not unwelcome.

“Mr Potter... and Ms Granger, I see,” Madam Pomfrey called as they grew closer.

“Madam Pomfrey, what are you doing here?” Harry asked, trying to sound pleasantly surprised. In truth, he was worried about how she’d known to come to the Black House but he sure was glad that someone who knew about events of that night had finally decided to visit.

“I thought I ought to check up on you,” she replied.

“Er, don’t take this the wrong way, but can you prove to me that you’re really Madam Pomfrey?” Harry requested. He didn’t want to stand around on the front steps but security was important.

Madam Pomfrey gave him a grim nod and thought for a moment. “Well, would it do that I know Ms Granger’s a werewolf?”

Harry thought about asking for something else because Dumbledore knew that too, but then he changed his mind. Dumbledore probably wouldn’t disguise himself to confront Harry. He would go for the show of power — a ‘I am Dumbledore; do as I say’ sort of show. He wouldn’t show up in disguise and talk his way in for a little cunning reconnaissance — that would be simply too Slytherin. So he just nodded.

“Would you like to come inside?” Harry asked, stepping up to the door and using his wand to unlock the door.

The three of them stepped inside. Madam Pomfrey’s eyes took in the house.

“If you can just follow us upstairs,” Harry said, taking the lead. He stopped at the first floor, outside the drawing room. “Just make yourself comfortable in here. I’ve got to put this stuff in my room.”

“Of course,” Madam Pomfrey said, walking into the drawing room and taking a seat on the sofa.

Harry and Hermione continued up the stairs to Harry’s room where Harry dropped off his purchases.

“Hermione, can you go down to the kitchen and, if Dobby’s there, tell him to stay down there or go out for a little while?” Harry asked. He didn’t want Dobby getting into trouble if someone who knew he really worked for Hogwarts saw him helping Harry out.

“Sure. I’ll bring up some tea too, shall I?” Hermione asked helpfully.

“Oh, yeah. That’s a good idea,” Harry said, smiling at her thankfully.

Hermione headed for the kitchen and Harry for the drawing room where he found Madam Pomfrey still seated on the sofa. He pulled out the desk chair and turned it around to face her.

“So...” he began awkwardly.

Madam Pomfrey gave him an indulgent smile. “Mr Potter, how are you?”

“I’m doing fine. No lasting effects from the Kiss,” Harry said shrugging.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Still keeping that journal of yours?”

“Yeah,” Harry said simply. “It’s really helped me sort out my thoughts.”

“That’s good. I was worried, with the seriousness of what you went through.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Um, Madam Pomfrey, do you mind if I ask how you found me?  I mean, its only really the Dursleys and the Grangers that know where I’m staying.”

“Oh, really?” she asked, surprised. “I just looked it up. Professor McGonagall’s been bringing her work home so I just checked the address on your letter. It’s all done by a special Auto-Quill so the addresses are always correct.”

“Do staff normally read through the addresses?” Harry asked, worried that they’d simply ignored the highly-suspicious address that had been on his first letter.

“No, I don’t think so,” Madam Pomfrey said. “There’s far too many to be keeping up with. Professor McGonagall uses a sorting charm to separate out any that need special additions, like new Prefect badges or a personal note from a professor or orientation materials for first year muggleborns. Everything else she just hands over to a house elf to stuff with the standard letters and lists.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling a bit better. He wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to know about the cupboard.

“Would it be alright if I did a few scans, just to make sure you’re still in good health and there aren’t any surprises just now popping up from your encounter?” she asked.

“That’d be fine, I suppose,” Harry agreed. “Do you need me to change or lie down or something?”

“Just take off anything enchanted and put your wand aside. Standing magic can interfere with the spells,” she said.

Harry took stock of what he was wearing but it was all completely mundane. He put his wand on the desk behind him and turned back to the healer.

Madam Pomfrey cast her spells and analyzed the results, a task which took a few minutes, at the end of which, she pronounced Harry healthy.

It was then that Hermione reappeared carrying a tea tray.

“It’s good to see you as well, Ms Granger,” Poppy said as Hermione set the tray down on the desk. “I trust Professor Snape has been in touch?”

“Yes. He sends the potion and he rang my house the morning after the full moon to make sure I didn’t need any other potions.”

Harry was surprised to hear about that. Hermione hadn’t mentioned it to him but he was glad that someone had bothered... or someone besides him, anyway.

“I see,” Madam Pomfrey said. “And it all went well enough?  I know you had the Wolfsbane potion so none of us anticipated you having any difficulties.”

“It was... fine,” Hermione said, her voice strained. “Not as bad as I’d feared.”

“The Wolfsbane Potion is a true wonder,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Judging by Professor Lupin’s experience, things would have been very different without it.”

Hermione nodded stiffly. “Tea?” she asked, turning her back to fuss with the tea service.

“None for me, thank you,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Ms Granger, I’m very sorry if I’ve upset you,” she said.

“It can’t be helped,” Hermione said, her back still to them. When she turned around with a cup of tea, the way Harry liked it, she said. “It’s getting late. I should be going home.”

Harry gave her a concerned look. “Are you sure?  What about lunch?”

“Another time,” she said with a strained smile. She didn’t hesitate to flee the room.

“If you can wait a bit, I’ll walk you to the station,” Harry said.

“No. You have company,” she called back as she disappeared up the stairs to get her book.

“Was there anything else,” Harry asked Madam Pomfrey hurriedly, rising to follow Hermione.

“There is. I’m sorry,” Madam Pomfrey said apologetically.

“Oh. Just give me a minute,” Harry said, and went after Hermione.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione said when he caught up. “Can I come over tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Harry said, bewildered.

She pushed past him and skipped down the stairs and out of sight. Harry just stood there, baffled by her changing moods. He heard the distant sound of the front door opening and then closing, shook his head and returned to the drawing room.

“I am sorry,” Madam Pomfrey said again.

“I don’t know what happened,” Harry admitted.

“I expect she was just upset that her date was interrupted,” Madam Pomfrey said.

“Date?” Harry squeaked. “We were just... she’s not... we’re just friends!  Really!” _Merlin, she’s way too young!_  It wasn’t the almost four year age gap that made him feel like a pervert at Madam Pomfrey’s suggestion. It was that even though he couldn’t remember a lot about his Hermione, those memories were still there somewhere in his mind and he was always subconsciously comparing his 18-year-old Hermione with Hermione as she was now and that made her seem terribly immature.

“I believe you,” Poppy said, “but it is possible Ms Granger feels differently.”

“But I thought she and Ron...” Harry trailed off, confused. _No, wait... I don’t think that’s happened yet._

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Now, there was something else. Professor McGonagall tells me that the last two years, you’ve disappeared from your relatives’ home in the middle of the night around this time of the summer and you turn up the next morning at the Weasleys’ or Diagon Alley. You’ve done the same this year, haven’t you?”

“No. This time, my guardians knew I was leaving and they had no objections,” Harry said, scowling.

“Now don’t give me that face, Mr Potter. Your living arrangements are between your guardians and yourself. Minnie and I are worried about you but unless your living situation is inadequate, it is not our place to raise a fuss.”

“It’s not!” Harry protested. “This is the best place I could be right now. It’s safe and its mine. And I can take care of myself.”

“I would feel better if you gave me you Floo address though.”

“I don’t have one," Harry said. "I haven’t had the fireplace hooked up.”

Madam Pomfrey gave him a confused look. “Surely an old pureblood house like this already had one. This is the Black House, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But it sat empty for years with no one to pay the bills,” Harry explained.

“But Gringotts handles regular payments for utilities — gas, water, Floo... I mean, I suppose the last Black could have canceled the services, but...”

“No, she didn’t,” Harry replied. Dobby had reported that the gas and water were both on when they’d started cleaning the house. The bills couldn’t have been that much with only Kreacher living here but he’d just never thought about it before. “It was all running. I guess I’ll have to check with the Floo Authority,” he said. _Sooner, rather than later_ , he thought. _All sorts of nasty people could have the Black Family Floo address._ It made him very glad that they’d yet to light a fire in any of the grates in this house so all the flues were still shut. No one could Floo into a house with the flues closed.

“Did you think witches and wizards just stole services?” Madam Pomfrey asked jokingly.

“Well, I guess,” Harry said. He couldn’t imagine someone like Lucius Malfoy writing a cheque to British Gas. Suddenly, it made sense that Gringotts would have a service to handle such things.

“Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey sounded scandalized, “you have been paying for things, haven’t you?”

“I must be,” Harry said. “They haven’t shut anything off yet.”

“Alright. Well, just you check your quarterly statement from Gringotts when it comes and make certain. And owl me with your Floo address as soon as you get that sorted, if you would please.”

Harry nodded. _If I don’t just cancel the Floo service,_ he thought. He’d wondered before about how secure they could make a public access network. He recalled that he’d sort of agreed to meet with the Minister at Ministry Headquarters this summer. He was pretty sure that was where the Floo Authority was located so maybe it was time to arrange that visit.

“Is that all, Madam Pomfrey?” Harry asked distractedly.

“Well, yes,” Madam Pomfrey replied after a moment.

“I’ll show you out then,” he said, his mind already composing a letter to the Minister.

*****

“Black House,” Harry said and disappeared in a swirl of green fire into the Floo network. He spun round and round. He hugged several rolled-up tubes of parchment and tried to keep his elbows in close so they wouldn’t get banged up on the grates he was whizzing past. Suddenly, he was spat out on a cold hearth in a familiar kitchen. He stumbled but righted himself quickly.

Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table, the spell matrix charts spread out before her.

“Hello,” he said. “Thanks for opening the flue, Hermione.”

“Happy Birthday,” she said happily. “I brought you a cake. And how was your tour of the Ministry?”

Harry smiled. “As expected, I guess. I spent an hour playing Fudge’s lapdog, shaking hundreds of hands, charming old ladies, and smiling for photographs. And Magical Games and Sports gave me a bunch of Quidditch posters. The _Prophet_ headline tomorrow will probably be Ministry of Magic Wishes Boy Who Lived A Very Happy Birthday. They got some photos of the Minister and me in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It was a good picture and the article is sure to please Fudge.”

“You got some parcels — I think Ron and Hagrid sent cakes too. And there were two letters. I know we haven’t made much progress on the cabinet lately but...” she paused to push the letters across the table at Harry and pull one from her bag too, “...our Hogwarts letters are here. Can we use your new Floo to go shopping for our supplies?  You know how I am with new books.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry said, “I just have to add your name to the Floo scroll.” He picked through his bundle of scrolls to find the one from the Floo Authority.

“What’s that do?” Hermione asked, leaning over from across the table to look at the runes inked around the edges of the scroll.

“Only people whose names are on this scroll can use my Floo. It’s something they do for special high security connections,” Harry said. “Kreacher, can you get me a quill and ink, please?”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher said.

“Why are there two columns?” Hermione asked. “I can see from the runes that they’re different, not just an overflow for more names.”

“The first column is for people who are allowed to call and the second is for people who are allowed to Floo in and out,” Harry said.

Kreacher returned with a pop. “Here is being Master’s quill and ink.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said. He took the items and quickly added Hermione’s name to each column. While he was at it, he also added each of the Weasleys, Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape to each column as well, though none of them knew his Floo address yet.

“What’s that other letter about, if you don’t mind my asking?” Hermione said tensely while Harry was writing. “I wasn’t being nosy, but I did notice that it was a return. And that it was meant for Professor Lupin.”

Harry looked up, surprised. He set aside the quill and picked up the letter in question. It was exactly as he’d sent it. He absently flipped it over and over in his hands, lost now in thought.

“You haven’t told him about me, have you?” Hermione asked. Harry wasn’t looking at her so he missed seeing her eyes wide with fear.

“Not yet,” Harry muttered, distractedly. He wasn’t really thinking about Hermione at that moment; he was too busy worrying about the reasons this letter had been returned. Was Lupin out of owl range or had he refused delivery?  Was he in hiding or dead?

“You can’t!  He’d turn me in!” Hermione cried, distraught.

“I don’t think he would, Hermione,” Harry pulled himself back to attention and said gently.

“He would, he would!  Professor Dumbledore said so,” she cried, distraught.

“Professor Dumbledore doesn’t know everything.”

“But he’s—” Hermione began.

“No,” Harry interrupted. “He’s a school headmaster, Hermione, not a god.”

“He’s an important man. He’s Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards,” Hermione pointed out.

“You know what, you’re right,” Harry said, scowling deeply. “And if he really wants to keep you and Lupin safe, he’d use those positions to change Ministry laws about werewolves, not frighten the wits out of you so you’ll keep his secret!”

“I have all my wits, thank you very much!” Hermione shouted, livid. “Every person who knows means I’m more at risk, you can’t deny that, so leave me out of your soap opera with Lupin and your tizzy over Dumbledore!  Now can we please just go buy our books now?”

“Fine!  Merlin, Hermione!” Harry exclaimed, taken aback. “Let’s go get our supplies. Kreacher please take Lupin’s letter and these Quidditch posters up to my room and pin the Floo scroll to the wall by that fireplace — it’s the only one connected to the Floo. Hermione and I will be in Diagon Alley.” He neglected to call Dobby but it probably didn’t matter because Dumbledore was bound to hear about this anyhow.

Harry stood, pocketed his Hogwarts letter, and stepped back from the table. He gave Hermione a look that said, ‘What are you waiting for?’ and then turned to light the kitchen fireplace. From his pocket, Harry took a blue wooden box that had come with his upgrade of Floo service. He removed the lid from the box and held it out. “You first,” he said.

Hermione stepped up, frowned deeply at him, and took a pinch of the Floo Powder from the box, and threw it into the fireplace.“Diagon Alley,” she said, stepping into the green flames, and disappeared in a whirl of color and kiss of flame.

Harry took a pinch of the powder for himself, closed the box and set it on the mantle, then followed after Hermione.

Tuesday afternoons didn’t appear to be very busy as Harry stepped out of the Floo and into a half-empty Leaky Cauldron.

“Gringotts first,” Hermione said.

After the bank, they started in on their supply lists with minimal discussion. Hermione was still quite upset. At Magical Menagerie, they stocked up on supplies to care for Crookshanks and Hedwig. At the stationary store, they bought lots of parchment and ink, blotting paper, some new quills, and Harry bought some more sealing wax. They got their books at Flourish and Blotts. Harry was hoping that as soon as he talked to Professor McGonagall that he would be allowed to switch to Arithmancy, possibly with the third years, but he couldn’t be sure that would be allowed yet so he bought the Divination text just in case. Then they went to the apothecary to buy two Fourth Year Potions Kits. By the time they had worked their way through to the last item on the list, the dress robes, Hermione was speaking to Harry again.

“I think you should go with green,” she said, looking from Harry to a book of fabric swatches and back again. “Something to match your eyes.”

“Do you think so?” Harry asked, fingers stroking a Gryffindor red contemplatively.

“Yes. And I think you should go with a layered style. I mean, they’re more expensive, but I just think they look dressier. Some of these plain ones just look like school robes in odd colors,” Hermione said, now flipping through a glossy book of photographs of wizards and witches modeling different styles of robes. “See?”

Harry took the book from Hermione and flipped through a few of the pages for wizards. “Yeah, I do like the trouser option. I mean, I’d wear trousers under the others anyways, but—”

“Sorry about the wait,” Madam Malkin said, bustling in. “Which one of you is first?”

“Hermione,” Harry said.

“Harry,” Hermione said at the same time.

“Alright,” Harry said. “Hermione says I should do one of these in green,” he said, showing Madam Malkin two different photographs of the layered styles of dress robe.

“Quite right, quite right,” Madam Malkin agreed. She flicked her wand and suddenly all sorts of things were flying through the air towards her. A pedestal came to a stop at her feet, a sewing box hovered in the air at her side, and several bolts of green fabric stacked themselves on a table behind her. “I think gold embroidery and buttons, a white shirt, a black waistcoat, and black trousers, and of course, the green over-robe. You’ll pick out the shirt, waistcoat and trousers from the racks and I’ll do the matching embroidery on them. I’ll fit you for the robe now and I’ll send it all along Monday or Tuesday at the latest by owl. If that’s acceptable, on to the pedestal with you.”

Harry was made to stand on the pedestal for quite a while as measurements were taken. Normal school robes only had to be hemmed to length, and there were styles of dress robes that were the same at a bargain price, but the style he’d chosen meant Madam Malkin had to take full body measurements. When she was finished, she sent him out to the front of the shop to pick the off-the-rack parts of his outfit and have them fitted by her assistant. He returned to find Hermione already stepping off the pedestal.

“Finished already?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Let’s go up front and pay and then I’m finished shopping.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed. “Are you coming over to the Black House or heading home to read?”

“Home,” she said. “If I start tonight, I expect I could do a very cursory reading of all my texts in a day and a half. That should give me enough time to go back through properly and take notes before our World Cup trip.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. There was no way he was going to read all of these books twice before they were even back at school. But that was Hermione, wasn’t it. “I’ll see you Thursday evening, then,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said, fading a bit at the mention of the full moon night.

They paid for their robes, collected their other purchases, and walked back to the Leaky Cauldron where they parted ways.

Later that night, he sent Hedwig to Madam Pomfrey with his Floo address so she wouldn’t worry, but with his being so busy with the cabinet project spread about the kitchen and the Fidelius Charm to learn, he spent most of the weekend with the flue closed so he could concentrate. He managed to figure out how to fix two of the smaller holes in the broken matrix and went upstairs to the spare bedroom that held the broken cabinet to apply the repairs himself, but the larger ones were more involved and he left those for when he and Hermione could address those together. Harry was worried. This was taking a long time. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he couldn’t get the sword before they had to go back to Hogwarts.


	10. The Grangers

Harry was waiting on his front steps when the Grangers’ car turned the corner. He got up and crossed the front garden to step outside the wards as they pulled to a stop. Hermione got out first and went straight to the boot to get her overnight bag. Her face was grim. Her parents did not look amused either as they got out of the car.

“Mr Potter, might I have a word, if you please,” Mr Granger said, scowling.

“Sure. Hermione, take my wand and let yourself in,” Harry said, passing Hermione his wand. He didn’t like to be without it, but it would only be for a moment, and he was among muggles so it was fairly safe.

Mr Granger waited several moments, waiting for his daughter to go inside. He couldn’t see that she was taking her time lingering on the front steps, hoping to overhear something.

But when Mr Granger spoke again, it quiet. “Hermione let on yesterday that you two were planning to go to the World Cup match alone, without adult supervision.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Harry replied, uncertain of where this was headed. “You didn’t know that until yesterday?” He was very disappointed in Hermione. He’d thought she was trustworthy in the area of authority figures and following their rules. She’d always been before.

“She was trying to keep it a secret. She had told us you would be going with the Weasley family.”

“I’m very sorry,” Harry said sincerely. “I asked her to invite you but she said you’d already decided not to go. You couldn’t come to the match itself, but we’d have to camp at least one night there and you could stay at the campsite.”

“She told us when she realized she’d been caught,” Mrs Granger said. “We’re not asking to go. Surely there’s a magical adult who can go with you?”

“Mr and Mrs Granger, I’m not sure you realize this, but I haven’t seen or talked to my guardians in a month now. I’ve been looking after myself for most of my life and I’m very responsible. I have a couple of servants and friends that help me with the cooking and cleaning and errands and the care Hermione needs in the morning after the full moon but mostly it’s just me.”

“I don’t understand,” Mr Granger said.

Harry sighed and ran his fingers nervously through his hair. “There’s really no love lost between me and the Dursleys. They let me call their house my home but we’re all happier if I make other living arrangements for as much of the year as possible. I know it’s hard to imagine a fourteen-year-old who can look after himself and a friend-in-need but I can and I am. Hermione needs help, magical help, and I’m one of the few people in a position where I can give it. I’ll understand if you don’t want her to go to the match now, but she’s been looking forward to it for months and I think she needs a chance to get away from everything that’s happened lately. You really can come along, you know. My tent sleeps four and—”

“Mr Potter,” Mr Granger interrupted. “We don’t want to go. It’s become very clear to us that the world of magic is very dangerous and we’re not prepared for it... sadly, neither was Hermione and we learned that too late.”

“You seem like a very capable young man,” Mrs Granger said. “Are the Weasleys going to this match too?”

“Yes, they’re making their own arrangements though,” Harry replied. He’d honestly expected the Grangers to decide to come. Now he could see his plans for the match slipping away and he was disappointed about it but he didn’t blame them.

“As long as there is a magical adult you can contact, I suppose it would be alright,” Mrs Granger said, a bit reluctantly.

“Oh...” Harry said uncertainly. He was about to ask if she was sure when Mr Granger spoke instead.

“We can’t protect her from the troubles she faces as a witch so she needs to learn to be an independent young woman, capable of taking care of herself. We think this trip is a fine idea, though we’ve already had words with her about keeping secrets and trying to make decisions for us. What I wanted to say to you was much the same, but it seems you already know. Take care of yourself, Mr Potter, and thank you for helping our daughter,” Mr Granger explained.

Harry wasn’t sure what to say as the Grangers got back in their car. What he was feeling, he couldn’t put into words. He didn’t understand the ache in his chest. He felt somehow sad, but didn’t know why.

Just when he thought they’d pull away without another word, Mrs Granger rolled down the window. “Would you remind Hermione we’ll be here to pick her up at seven?”

Harry nodded and let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. And then he realized: for a moment there, he’d been truly worried that they’d been trying to warn him that they were abandoning Hermione, but now he felt foolish for thinking that. “That’s what I get for growing up with the Dursleys,” Harry muttered bitterly as the Grangers drove away. He turned and shuffled back across the walk and up the steps, then knocked at the door.

Hermione opened it right away. “What did they say?” she demanded nervously.

“That we can still go to the World Cup,” Harry said, pushing past and closing the door behind him.

“You were out there an awful long time for just that,” Hermione said.

Harry plucked his wand from her hand and took off towards the stairs. She hurried to keep up with him.

“Harry—” she began again.

“It’s getting late. You should get ready,” he said.

Hermione blanched and scurried up the stairs to change and get into her room. Harry locked the door behind her and they both settled in to wait.

*****

“It wasn’t... so bad... this time,” Hermione gasped hoarsely.

“You knew what to expect?” Harry whispered sadly, helping her up off the floor.

“Getting used to it,” Hermione said. “What time is it?”

“Nearly 6:30. Your dad said he’d come around 7,” Harry told her gently.

“Shower,” Hermione whispered and headed slowly but purposefully down the corridor.

“Do you need any potions?” Harry called after her.

“Same as last... time, I think,” she said, her sentence punctuated by a yawn.

Harry sent Dobby off to report to Dumbledore, got Hermione sorted and sent her home with her parents. She’d been stronger than he expected. She’d been crying so hard Harry was sure she’d make herself sick when he locked her in. It had been so bad, it had hurt just to make himself walk across the hall and leave her. But the morning had been better and now that she was gone, he was able to calm down a little and get a couple of hours of sleep.

After that, he felt he had to get something done so he decided to practice the Fidelius Charm some more. He’d now put more than twice as much time into learning this charm as he had the Patronus Charm but with nothing to show for it. “I need this!” he growled.

Maybe it was the desperation or maybe something in Harry’s magic just clicked, but the very next day, Harry had a breakthrough and at last he was able to see a difference in the objects he was practicing the spell on. He devoted several hours more to it over the next couple of days and soon he was able to fully hide a few objects. The next step would be perfecting the part of the spell that allowed others to be let in on the Secret.

The next day, when Hermione came over, they made good progress on the broken cabinet. They were discussing the last of the damaged sections of the matrix over lunch when there was a whoosh from the fireplace. Harry jumped and spun around, clutching at his wand, only to see that it was just the Floo connecting a call. A second later, Madam Pomfrey’s head appeared in a window of green fire.

“Hello at last, Mr Potter,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call for four days but your flue’s been closed.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” Harry said evasively. His hand fell away from his wand pocket and he sat back down, facing the fire.

“Thank you for sending me your address. I want you to have mine as well. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me, okay?  It’s ‘Flat 1B at the Old Crown’.”

Harry repeated it back, committing it to memory.

“Anything at all, Mr Potter, you hear?”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said.

“Alright. You take care then, Mr Potter, and you Miss Granger,” she said, smiling at him kindly.

“Bye,” Harry said. And as soon as the connection ended, Harry closed the flue. He doubted there’d be anymore calls but they had things to do today that he didn’t want interrupted.

Harry had slipped into a conversation with Dobby a seemingly-innocent question about where Dumbledore was spending his holidays and if he didn’t have work to do at the school. Dobby was certain that Dumbledore was quite busy at his home and in London with business that would not conclude until at least the morning of the World Cup. Harry was cutting it very close but they were finally nearing the end of the cabinet repairs.

*****

“My dad wants to buy our food and the souvenirs for the trip,” Hermione said, “since you bought the tickets and the tent.” They were taking a break from cabinet work to eat lunch and Hermione had been reading in the _Daily Prophet_ about the travel arrangements for the Quidditch World Cup they would be attending soon. “What sort of food can we take?  I mean, we can only carry so much and even with our charmed schoolbags, we’re going to be kind of limited. Will we need to go to a camping store and get dehydrated meal packs or something?” Hermione asked. She always had been one for forethought and tended to jump happily into planning for anything from revision to packing for a trip.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. He’d forgot that she wasn’t familiar with wizard’s tents. “The tent’s like a little cabin inside. There’s cold cupboards and a lot of storage space. And we could probably pack every inch of it full of boulders and it would still pack away in its bag and be as light as an empty muggle tent.”

“Really?  That’s clever. I’ll see it for myself when we pack everything up, I suppose. I wonder if the Hogwarts library has any books on how they’re made,” Hermione said, her eyes glittering with curiosity.

After lunch, they got back to work on the cabinet research, only to hit a stumbling block. Hermione took one look at the patch Harry had spent most of the morning on and found half a dozen things wrong with it. When Hermione left later that afternoon with little progress made on the last of the cabinet repairs, Harry was so frustrated, he had to put it aside. He decided he’d better get back to practicing the Fidelius Charm. That was another project he really wanted to make some progress by the end of summer. But far from improving, Harry found himself failing completely every time he tried to enchant a silver hand mirror. He could feel the magic work as he began the spell, only to fizzle out partway through. “Back to the books,” he muttered, miserable and angry with himself and how little he’d managed to accomplish that day.

“Oh!” he gasped unexpectedly an hour later. He’d found the reason for his new difficulty. A single individual could only hold a small number of Secrets at a time depending on their magical power and the size of the Secret. The book also mentioned that poor proficiency with the spell could limit the number or size of the Secrets you could guard. It made sense, now that Harry thought about it. Back in the first war with Voldemort, if Dumbledore had already had the Secret of their Order Headquarters and took the Longbottom family Secret, that would explain why he couldn’t take the Potter family’s Secret too. Harry looked at the floor before him. He’d now made nearly two dozen household items visible only to him before he’d started failing. They were very small Secrets but obviously he hadn’t cast the spell very well. He was beginning to worry that he’d have a lot of practicing to do even once he got the spell right before he’d be able to cast it well enough to guard the whole of the Black House and its property as Secret.

He checked his watch. He’d been at this for more than two hours but figured he could put in a bit more time yet today so he set about ritually ending the spells and started again. He cast the Fidelius on two different items from the assortment. He could feel it working again as it should which cheered him up a bit. To make it easier for Dobby, he then removed half of the uncharmed items He called Dobby when he’d finished and repeated the test of naming the items on the floor. It was working again. Dobby couldn’t see the hand mirror or the romance novel, nor did he realize they were missing. Harry felt relieved that it was working again but it was time for the real test.

“Dobby, the hand mirror and the romance novel are also right here. Can you see them now?” Harry said.

Dobby looked and right away, Harry could tell his answer. “Oh yes, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is seeing them now!” Dobby cheered.

Harry closed his eyes and sighed happily. He could do this. He would be able to protect this house. It would take more practice still to get the spell to be as efficient as possible because the Black House was a lot bigger than any of the household items he’d charmed thus far, but he would do it. He would practice and practice, and then when he was as confident about it as possible, he’d try it on his journal pages to hide what he’d written about what had happened to him because of the Time Turner. He’d wait a few days, a couple of weeks maybe, just to make sure the spell wouldn’t break down, then — hopefully before he went back to school — he would put the Black House under the Fidelius Charm.

*****

“Kreacher, can you help us put these away?” Harry called down the basement stairs and then he followed Hermione out to the back garden. They’d just returned from their shopping trip and were laden down with supplies. Harry had his schoolbag full of supplies and was also carrying four grocery bags. Hermione had planned ahead and borrowed a shopping trolley from her parents but even then, she’d had to carry two bags home as well. Hermione set those bags down on the grass, unfastened the tent flap, and stuck her head in. Harry, coming up behind her, heard her gasp and then she disappeared inside the tent completely, the shopping trolley rolling in just behind her.

“Wow, this is amazing. The level of magic that must have gone into the making of this, it’s even better than I’d imagined. This is one of those old Victorian ranges, isn’t it?” Hermione asked, pausing in a thorough inspection of the main room of the tent to look over the trunk-sized, wood-burning range. “Is this the only way to cook in the whole tent?”

“It seems to be. There’s no kitchen at all. We shouldn’t need it though. The Ministry expects us to cook over a campfire like muggles,” Harry replied as he set the bags he’d been carrying down.

“Strange. Even your house has a real oven and stove,” Hermione said, continuing her inspection at a tiny window that showed the garden outside just as it was but was completely invisible from the outside of the tent.

“Yeah, but the Black House has gas to run them on,” Harry pointed out as both Kreacher and Dobby appeared beside them.

“Separate out all the food. It can go in the supply room,” Harry told the elves. “It’s back this way,” he told Hermione, grabbing a bag of charcoal and a bag of perishables.

The supply room was the largest room in the whole tent, lined with shelves, bins, barrels and boxes, and the magical cupboards — one was enchanted to stay as cold as a refrigerator and the other as cold as a freezer. There were half a dozen big water barrels in the corner connected to the water delivery system for the shower and sink. Just yesterday, Harry and Kreacher had run a brand new, clean hosepipe from the house into the tent to fill up three of those barrels.

“Wow,” Hermione said again, seeing the storage space now for the first time. “I guess I can put this stuff anywhere?” she asked, holding up a bag of their cereals and snacks.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

Soon they had all the groceries packed away in the storage room and they turned their attention to the camping supplies they’d decided they would need. Hermione went back into the Black house to get the two folding chairs Harry’d bought a few days ago. Meanwhile, Harry went through the Black House with Kreacher collecting up things they’d need — matches, a cast iron skillet, a cauldron stand (to act as a tripod to hold the skillet over the fire), and various other items from the list they’d made. All these items were also packed away inside the tent.

“Dobby, can you go into the house and get us two pillows and two sets of linens, please?” Hermione requested as she ran down the list they’d made of things to pack.

“Of course, Miss Hermione,” Dobby replied, and popped away just as Kreacher and Harry returned bearing still more items

“Harry, we forgot to put bar soap and bath towels on the list,” Hermione said.

“There’s no bath. Just a shower,” Harry said, absently pointing the way to the very small bathroom as he took the list form her.

“We still need towels,” Hermione called with some annoyance as she went through the door Harry had indicated and found a room half the size of any bathroom in the Black House. Most of the space was taken up by a toilet and a sink just big enough to wash dishes or perhaps a few items of clothing at a time. A mirror barely large enough to show her whole face at once hung over the sink. It wasn’t until she closed the bathroom door behind her that she saw the shower head mounted on the wall behind it and noticed the drain in the floor by her feet. She sighed. Lately Hermione had begun to understand when people said a proper shower made them feel human again, but this would have to do and it was only for a few days. Kreacher appeared beside her, bearing the towels and soap she’d requested. She put the bar of soap on the rim of the sink, beside a dispenser of dish soap that Harry had already placed. The towels she took back out to the main room with her.

“Where should I put these?” she asked.

“The bedrooms, I guess,” Harry said, shrugging. “You can take the back one.”

Hermione poked her head into the front bedroom and tossed one towel onto the bottom bunk before heading into the identical back bedroom and hanging hers from the rail on the upper bunk bed. Both rooms were very small. There was just enough space for the bunks, a bit of floorspace to stow a pair of trunks, and room to walk.

While Hermione was poking around what was to be her room, Dobby came in with a set of sheets for her.

“Here, let me help,” she said, taking the opposite ends of a sheet. “We’re really going to be sorry to see you go tomorrow, Dobby,” she said as they worked.

“Miss Hermione will not be seeing Dobby go. Dobby will just be gone,” Dobby replied.

It took Hermione a moment to figure out his meaning. Sometimes Dobby said things that made her think Kreacher might be right about him. But she smiled at him and said, “Yes, well, we’ll miss having you around when you’re back at Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore had already informed Dobby that his follow-Harry-around detail was to end at five o’clock in the afternoon the following day. None of them were quite sure why, with more than a week left until school, Professor Dumbledore would make that call now, but they’d figured it might have something to do with preparations at the castle before term or maybe with the passing of the last full moon of the summer.

“Are we finished then?” Harry asked, coming to the doorway.

Hermione thought for a moment. “I can’t think of anything we forgot.”

“Alright. Let’s get out and pack up the tent,” Harry said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Harry fastened the tent flap behind them and then they started pulling up the stakes and taking the poles out of their casings. The tent quickly deflated as if there were nothing at all inside it and they folded it up tightly and packed it into its bag. But then, their progress was interrupted by a soft thunk that came from the direction of the house. Harry dropped the tent stakes in on top of the tent and went to see what had made the noise. Over on the ground beneath the owl flap, Harry found poor Errol wheezing and shuddering. Harry picked the old owl up and cradled him in one arm.

“They really ought to retire you,” Harry told him sympathetically. With some difficulty, he untied the letter one-handed and split the wax seal.

> Harry - The World Cup’s nearly here!  Mum’s writing to the
> 
> muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the
> 
> letter, I don’t know how fast muggle post is. Thought I’d
> 
> send this anyway. We’re coming for you whether the
> 
> muggles like it or not, you can’t miss the World Cup, only
> 
> Mum and Dad reckon it’s better if we pretend to ask their
> 
> permission first. If they say yes, send Errol back with your
> 
> answer pronto, and we’ll come and get you at 5 o’clock on
> 
> Sunday. If they say no, send Errol back pronto and we’ll
> 
> come and get you at five o’clock on Sunday anyway. - Ron

“Ron!” Harry groaned and ran inside.He headed directly for the basement where he set Errol on the table and then grabbed the tin of Floo Powder off the mantle.

“Incendio!” he said, lighting a fire. He opened the flue and then threw the powder in. “The Burrow!” he called into the flames and stuck his head into them.

Around him, the flames turned blue and a man’s voice with a Scottish accent said, “Your call cannot be connected because the recipient has shut their flue. Please try again later.”

Harry sighed, frustrated, and stepped back. He looked at Errol, lying on his back on the kitchen table and shook his head at the poor bird. Then he went upstairs to get Hedwig from her perch in his bedroom. “Should I send you to the Burrow and go to the phone booth to call the Dursleys?” Harry asked her, really thinking out loud. “Or should I leave the Burrow to Errol and send you to the Dursleys?

“They’d probably hang up on me if I just rung them up,” Harry snorted.

So he sat down to write a note to the Dursleys telling them just to forget all about the letter from the Weasleys. Hopefully they’d read it. He didn’t want them to start trying to contact anyone and say he wasn’t where he ought to be.

> Dear Dursley Family,
> 
> You may have received a letter from some friends of mine.
> 
> If you haven’t already, you will soon. I’m sorry about the
> 
> confusion but don’t worry, I’ll sort it out with them.
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> Harry

“Look girl,” he said to Hedwig, “I know you don’t like the Dursleys but I need you to take them this letter. Just drop it on their table and get out of there. Don’t get close enough that they can grab you and try to stay out of sight of any neighbors or guests, okay?”

Hedwig shifted from foot to foot unhappily but finally opened her beak and took the proffered letter. It wasn’t too far to the Dursley house, as the owl flies, so Harry expected they’d have his letter by dinner. He watched Hedwig fly away through the owl door and then picked up his quill again.

> Ron,
> 
> I didn’t realize when you talked about your
> 
> family’s plans for the World Cup that they included
> 
> me. I bought my own tickets weeks ago and I’m already
> 
> in London, all ready for the match. Maybe I’ll see you
> 
> there? 
> 
> Harry

Harry secured this letter to Errol’s leg and, with a sincere apology to the old owl, sent him back home without a rest.

Hermione and Dobby came inside then. Hermione set the tent bag on the table and sat down.

“Is something wrong at the Weasleys’?” she asked, concerned.

“Ron’s just now writing to tell me that they have a ticket for me to go to the World Cup with them and that they’ve sent a letter to the Dursleys asking if I can go but they don’t actually care if the Dursleys agree or not — or for that matter if I’m actually there or not. They’re planning to just show up there at 5pm tomorrow.”

Hermione looked utterly perplexed. “Don’t they realize its a little late to spring their plans on you?” she asked.

“I guess they never thought I’d make my own arrangements, though I can’t think why,” Harry said.

“It probably has something to do with Dumbledore. It would make sense. Someone well-connected had to have got them seats in the top box and Dumbledore’s the one who ordered Dobby back to Hogwarts tomorrow at exactly the same time the Weasleys were planning to pick you up. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore told them what he’s been hearing from Dobby — that you’ve mostly been staying at home and in the muggle world,” Hermione suggested.

“Fair point,” Harry admitted. He knew Dumbledore did those sorts of things — arranging his life for him by proxy. “Well it doesn’t matter. I’ve told Ron that I have my own plans already. We’re going to have a great time.


	11. Tom and Lily

“Do you think we can finish the cabinet today?” Hermione asked. She’d just arrived and they had most of the morning before her parents would expect her home for lunch.

“Let’s try,” Harry said, smiling as they climbed the stairs.

They sat down on the floor before the cabinet and unrolled the parchment with the last section of the matrix that needed repair.

“Look this over and tell me if its right,” Harry said, showing it to Hermione.

Hermione leaned over the page and scrutinized the runes, numbers and expressions carefully. “I can’t see anything wrong with it,” she said at last.

“Then let’s cast,” Harry said excitedly. They were so close. Harry cast the spell to reveal the cabinet’s spell matrix and quickly found the last hole.

“Ready?” Hermione suggested.

Harry nodded. He trained his wand on the hole and pushed magic into it in a steady stream.

Hermione stuck her wand deep into the hole and carefully began copying out the patch they’d designed, all the while keeping the intent of the magic and the overall pattern in the front of her mind. While Harry had managed the simple four-part matrix of his electric kettle, it wasn’t easy with something this complex, which was why Harry supplied the force of magic and Hermione, the finesse and direction.

For several minutes, this continued. But the moment Hermione made the last connection, they both knew it. Suddenly, the spell matrix filled with light as the power Harry was pouring in began to circulate as it never had with any of their previous repairs.

“You can stop now, Harry,” Hermione said, stepping back to survey their work.

Harry released the stream of magic and let his wand fall to his side. For several seconds, the extra power continued to flow through the matrix before it settled back down. “Wow,” Harry said. “We’ve fixed it. That’s what it means, right?”

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before, or even seen it done. I think it means we’ve completed a circuit but whether it will work as it should or not, I don’t know.”

“Let’s test it then,” Harry said. “I’m going through.”

“No!  You can’t!  What if we’ve made a mistake?” Hermione protested.

Harry shrugged. “Then I won’t go anywhere?”

“You can’t know that. You could end up disappearing without anywhere to appear again,” she insisted.

“I’m not going to vanish, Hermione,” Harry said dismissively.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest again, but Harry’s heart was set on rushing right in. He’d been waiting too long for this cabinet to be fixed to be cautious now.

“I’m doing it,” he snapped. He stepped into the cabinet and shut the door behind him.

And nothing happened. Standing there in the dark, Harry’s heart fell. He sighed and pushed the door open again and opened his mouth to tell Hermione...

Only Hermione wasn’t there and it wasn’t the spare room before him. It was the first floor corridor at Hogwarts.

Harry broke out into a grin and pulled the door shut. He was so elated, he was laughing when he opened it again and stepped out into the spare room. “We did it!” he cheered.

The look of concern and irritation turned to one of excitement and she jumped up and down and clapped. “We did it, Harry!  We did it!” she cheered with him.

And then Harry had to be very careful. This had been a distraction, an intellectual exercise, a hobby and possibly the start of a future career for Hermione and that was the way he wanted it to stay. He didn’t want her to realize that to him, this was a means to an end. Sure it had been fun and he’d learned a lot, but his goal from the start had been to get a way into Hogwarts and that he did not want to involve her in. He did not want Hermione to know anything about his plan to steal the sword and he certainly didn’t want to have to explain why he wanted it or what he was going to do with it.

So he levitated the cabinet 180 degrees, then set it down with its doors to the wall. He’d acted like that was the end of it and closed up the spare room. He’d distracted her with other things until it was time for her to go, then he’d walked her to the Tube station. But when he got back, he bolted for his Invisibility Cloak. He desperately wished he had the map for this. It would have made this task a lot less nerve-wracking. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He turned the cabinet around again and stepped from his spare room into Hogwarts.

Harry closed the cabinet door with the barest of clicks. He stood there for a moment, checking the corridors for signs of life and the paintings for any portraits, but the coast appeared to be clear so he tip-toed his way deeper into the castle, heading for one of the tower staircases. He only had to go up one flight and then along two corridors to find the gargoyle. He passed a couple of portraits along the way, but invisible and moving quietly, they didn’t notice him. Most of the portraits, even those near the gargoyle, were missing their occupants. Harry got quite close to the gargoyle and began listing every sweet he could think of. Dumbledore’s passwords were always sweets, he was somehow sure of that.

“Chocoballs, Ice Mice, Fizzing Whizbees, Jelly Slugs, Pepper Imps, Toothflossing Stringmints, Sugar Quills, Acid Pops, Blood Pops, Peppermint Toads—”

The gargoyle slid aside, the grating noise echoing through the empty corridor and setting Harry’s nerves alight. He took the stairs on the moving staircase three at a time and wrenched the door at the top open. Surprisingly, it moved silently. He stepped inside looked around cautiously. With it being summer and the school sitting mostly empty, most of the former headmasters had gone off to others of their portraits in places with more excitement. A few remained but appeared to be asleep. Harry tip-toed as quickly as he dared around the desk and reached for the sword.

His hands closed around it through the fabric of his cloak and he ever so carefully hefted it down, whipping it under the cloak and causing it to disappear. He turned to leave.

“I know you’re there. Stop or I’ll raise the alarm,” a very quiet voice said behind him.

Harry jumped nearly out of his skin and couldn’t quite manage to swallow the yelp of surprise. His heart, already beating fast with the danger of sneaking around where he shouldn’t be, suddenly doubled its pace.

“Show yourself. You’ll never make it out of here if I summon help.” The voice was so quiet that even the old school Heads continued to snooze in their portraits.

Harry turned around slowly, full of dread and completely uncertain of what he would see.

It was the Sorting Hat. Harry could have sobbed with relief. The Hat, he could reason with. It knew what he’d seen, probably better even than he did. He propped the sword against his hip, point stuck in the carpet, and reached up to place the Sorting Hat on his invisible head.

 _Oh!  Why hello there, child. I did not expect this of you, but I see now that I should have. Well do I remember our discussion of two months ago. I understand now why you would do this, but I fear that others will not. Are you certain of your course of action?  Can you not find a safer path?  One that does not require you to steal?_  the Hat spoke just to him.

 _I’m sorry,_ Harry thought to the Hat. _I know Dumbledore will worry when he finds this sword missing, but I don’t trust him and I need this sword. It has to be this one, because of the basilisk venom. I have horcruxes to destroy._

_Use the sword well then, young warrior. See that the creature Tom Riddle has become never brings his darkness to these halls. Save the children, Harry. And save yourself._

_I’m trying. I just hope I can do it,_ Harry thought to the hat.

The hat went still again and Harry returned it to its shelf. He fumbled for a moment to find the hilt of the sword without being able to see it, then picked up the sword and left the office. By the time the noise of the gargoyle moving faded away, he was already rounding the corner and heading down a second corridor to the tower stairs. It was five more flights up to the seventh floor and the tower was not very far from the Room of Requirement.

He hurried down the corridor and walked in front of the proper section of wall three times, thinking, _I need to get the horcrux. Show me the room with the hidden things._

When the door appeared, Harry wasted no time in slipping inside and shutting it behind him. Seeing it now, he got a flash of a memory. The last time he’d seen this place, it had been burning with Fiendfyre. He’d been all too aware that people were dying and if he didn’t get out of there as fast as he could, he would soon join them. Now it seemed eerily quiet and still. He wasn’t quite sure where he needed to go. He didn’t remember and looking now at the enormity of the task of searching this mass of junk, he wished he’d had the foresight to draw himself a little map. Knowing that this could take a long time and would probably require some shifting of this junk, he took off the cloak and set it and the sword down just inside the door.

Then he wound his way through corridors made of broken and damaged furniture, waded through piles of cloaks and hats, past towers of books and a heap of bottles of potions, some chipped or congealed and some that shimmered suspiciously as he passed. There were weapons and a big skeleton with five legs in a tarnished cage and a stuffed troll. He just didn’t see the diadem.

Fighting off his worries, he thought about the clues he had left himself in his journal. There’d been a bust of a warlock and a wig too and he’d put all three on top of a cabinet. If he couldn’t spot the diadem, maybe he could find the bust and the wig near one of the cabinets. So he searched on, stopping to scrutinize the vicinity of every cabinet, check every piece of marble or plaster. He began to get tired. He’d surely spent hours at this already. But he couldn’t give up.

And then, at long last, he spotted a bust of a warlock perched on top of a side table in the shadow of a cabinet. His eyes scanned the piles of assorted junk around it and there, lying inconspicuously in a small crate filled to the brim with mismatched, tarnished earrings, bracelets, and other assorted jewelry. He grabbed it and raced back to the spot just inside the door where he’d left the sword and his cloak.

But he didn’t quite make it before the horcrux came to life, a wispy figure with glowing red eyes appeared in the reflections on the blue gem. “You could be great,” a bewitching little voice whispered.

Harry hastily dropped it and grabbed the sword. So the defense on this one was similar to what had been put on Hufflepuff’s Cup.

“Put me on. You could be brilliant, the most knowledgeable, the cleverest. You could know everything. People would come to you begging for you to share with them just a grain of your wisdom.”

Harry snorted. He already had far more fame than he wanted. This trap wasn’t going to beat him. He wasn’t even tempted. He hesitated no longer and slashed into the tarnished silver and directly onto the blue gem. There was a sizzling noise and then a shower of sparks exploded and danced along the surface of the diadem. Harry took an involuntary step backwards, the sword falling to his side. The diadem seemed to ripple and shift as the embedded venom in the blade ate away at the dark magic. Eventually, the obvious signs of magic stopped and Harry hesitantly reached out to touch it. When nothing adverse seemed to happen, he quickly pocketed it. He’d spent far longer here than he’d wanted to. He wrapped himself and the sword in his Invisibility Cloak and approached the door cautiously.

Silently, he pressed his ear to the door and tried to hear if anyone was waiting on the other side. Yet again, he cursed the lack of Marauder’s Map. Hearing nothing, he turned the knob and slowly, very slowly opened the door. He stuck his invisible head out and checked both directions, scrutinizing the empty space for any sign of Dumbledore or house elves attempting to go unseen but he neither saw nor heard anything. So he left the room, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible and crept towards the stairs. No one appeared to be on the staircase either so he hurried down them. Even invisible, he felt exposed here.

Harry nearly had a heart attack when he passed the third floor and saw an army of elves at work cleaning the corridor with a clear line of sight into the tower stair. He darted invisibly past and ran down the last two flights onto the corridor where the cabinet stood. He had to be careful. Not only did he not want to be caught, he also wanted to leave no sign to suggest that the cabinet was in any way useful or important. But knowing that there were only landscapes and pastoral paintings on this corridor, he ran, wrenched open the cabinet door, leapt in and pulled it shut behind him. His heart was racing and he couldn’t get enough breath as he pushed open the door to the cabinet in the Black House. Without even stopping to catch his breath, he closed the doors and spun the cabinet around magically to face the wall again. He did not want anyone to be able to follow him through. He desperately hoped that none of the elves had noticed him.

“Kreacher,” Harry called.

“Master is needing Kreacher?” Kreacher asked, popping into the room beside him.

Harry, his nerves on edge already, jumped. “Yes, Kreacher. Take this to Hermione’s safe room, make sure it’s doors are up against the wall and then lock it in.”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher replied and quickly saw that it was done.

Harry waited to make sure no one jumped out while it was being moved, and then when the last chain was fastened over the strengthened door, he turned around and stumbled into his room. He wanted badly to fall into bed and recover from that ordeal, but he was filthy and covered in sweat. He stored the cloak and sword in his trunk and, still shaking from the adrenaline, went to take a shower. When he got out, he made himself stop to eat a light dinner, and then he went to bed early. The other horcruxes would have to wait until tomorrow. He just didn’t have the energy to stay awake any longer.

*****

Harry awoke the next day feeling rested and bolstered by a sense of accomplishment. Immediately after devouring his breakfast, Harry sent Kreacher to Gringotts to retrieve the cup and the locket horcruxes. When Kreacher returned, he had no difficulty handing the cup over but he was holding the locket close to his chest protectively. His beloved Master Regulus had died for this locket, so Harry understood. He could tackle the cup first anyway and he already had some experience with its defenses. He placed it on the floor in front of him and grasped the sword hilt with both hands. As soon as he lifted the sword, the cup’s defenses barraged his mind, determined that he should treasure this cup as far too precious to destroy. But Harry knew better.

The sword chopped through the air, striking the cup and biting shallowly into the rim. As with the diadem, the impact sent up sparks and the air around the cup rippled with colliding magic. It was over quickly and Harry stepped back and nodded to Kreacher.

Kreacher had a hopeful expression but was still cradling the locket to his chest. Harry considered it and decided perhaps he ought to let Kreacher have the honors here.

“Would you like to carry out Regulus’ last order, Kreacher?” Harry asked. “All you have to do is strike the locket with this sword,” Harry explained, holding the sword out for Kreacher to take. “There’s basilisk venom on it that will destroy the evil magic.”

Kreacher looked from the locket to the sword to Harry several times, then bent over and gently placed the locket on the ground. Awkwardly, he took the sword from Harry. It was much too large for Kreacher’s stature so Kreacher couldn’t swing it like Harry had with the diadem. Instead, he had to hold it vertically over the locket. With a look of determination, he raised the sword high and plunged the point downwards... only to stop abruptly, just short. His face went slack and his eyes distant for a moment and then he spoke.

“Not you again!” Kreacher sneered in a voice far too refined, too self-righteous to belong to any house elf.

 _Oh shit!_  Harry thought and began frantically scanning the room for means of distraction or escape. He knew that drawl. He knew that smug, self-important twang!  _Damnit!_  he cursed mentally again. He fumbled for his wand and made to step towards the door.

But Riddle had noticed him and suddenly Harry was thrown backwards and slammed into the wall loudly, then slid downwards.

Kreacher spun, sword raised, glaring at him malevolently. The air between them crackled with house elf magic and Harry felt his body go stiff as a statue. Off balance, he toppled sideways. His face buried in the carpet, one arm in the air, he came to fully appreciate how dangerous his situation now was and began to hyperventilate.

“Who are you?” the cold tone of Tom Riddle demanded.

“Master Harry—” Kreacher began, his voice wavering fearfully, begging for something that Riddle stopped him from saying.

“Oh, so he’s your master,” Riddle interrupted with a sinister glee. Then he snarled nastily, “The horrible blood traitor orders you around, elf!  You don’t want to listen to him!”

“Master... mudblood... orders Kreacher to wait on filthy muggleborn...”

“Ha ha ha,” Riddle laughed cruelly. “That always works. Get him going and he disappears into his head... and I can come out. Do you know how many times he’s tried to destroy my locket?  It never works. And now I have a weapon and once you’re dead...”

Harry could see the shadow on the carpet in front of his face shift as the sword was raised over his neck. _No!_  he tried to shout. _I will not die like this!_  He fought hard against the magic that held him, straining to move, trying to get away from Riddle. But it wasn’t working and the shadow was moving, the sword plunging towards his neck. He was frantic and his magic knew it. It exploded from him with a soundless boom that shattered the spell keeping him still and threw Riddle/Kreacher backwards and into the opposite wall.

Breathing heavily, Harry seized his wand and leapt to his feet, ready to neutralize the threat but he quickly realized that between the magical explosion and the impact with the wall, that was no longer necessary. Kreacher was still breathing shallowly, he could see, but was unconscious where he’d landed splayed where the wall met the floor. Harry kept his wand trained as a precaution as he approached and took the sword from where it had landed. Without turning his back, he shuffled sideways until the locket, still on the carpet where Kreacher had left it, stood between him and the danger. He plunged the sword, the tip striking the locket. With the spirit of Riddle still in the unconscious Kreacher, there was no resistance as magic sizzled across the surface outwards from the point of impact and corroded the metal. It took a moment for the damage to break through into the guarded interior of the locket and another for it to permeate, reaching all the little crevices of the cursed artifact. Suddenly, Kreacher started to fit and Harry jumped, pointing his wand defensively. A cloud of thick, black smoke burst from Kreacher’s slack mouth. In its wake, Kreacher’s eyes flew open and he righted himself and skittered away from the charred, twisted locket and back into a corner of the room where he curled up in a ball crying apologies.

Harry was nearly as distressed himself. He dropped the sword and stepped backwards to fall heavily onto the sofa. With the situation diffused, the adrenaline left him and he slumped over, exhausted. It was all he could do to lay there and keep breathing in that moment. And he stayed there for a long time, completely ignoring Kreacher’s hysterics in favor of his own recovery. He wasn’t sure how long it was before he found the strength and fortitude to sit up.

“We’re both okay, Kreacher,” Harry said to the elf. “I’m not angry with you.”

And it was true. Harry was annoyed with himself for not realizing the effect the locket would have had on Kreacher. He knew the diary had wormed its way into Ginny’s mind and been able to take control in much less time than the locket had had with Kreacher.

“You’re not to punish yourself, do you understand?” Harry insisted. “But you are to tell me everything you know about horcruxes, Kreacher.”

Kreacher sniffled harshly, took several shuddering breaths and unfolded from the huddle he’d had himself in. With the edge of his rags, he wiped his puffy eyes and streaming nose. Then he nodded, but his eyes remained on the locket. Sniffling and hiccoughing, Kreacher repeated everything he’d ever gleaned from Regulus’ work on the subject of horcruxes. Harry stopped him for long enough that Harry could to retrieve his journal so he could take notes. From Kreacher, Harry finally had his answer to what a horcrux was and why it was so vital that he destroy them all. He felt suddenly very thankful that the piece of Riddle’s soul, one of that bastard’s anchors to the realm of the living, was no longer in his head.

“Alright. Take today off. I’m going to rest until lunch — which I’ll make for myself,” Harry told his elf.

Kreacher got up and walked stiffly out of the room and stayed out of sight for the rest of the day. Harry was quite shaken but his nerves settled down over the course of the morning and by the time he sat down to eat the sandwich he’d made himself for lunch he was feeling better. He’d gone to strike out the three destroyed horcruxes from the list in his journal and realized that there was just one horcrux left: the ring. He had enough description of its location that he thought he could probably find it. The Knight Bus should be able to take him to Little Hangleton even though he didn’t personally know where that was and it sounded like a small village so he didn’t think it would be too difficult to search the area for a falling-down shack with Muggle-Repelling Charms on it. The biggest difficulty would be that Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to do magic once he got there. In a muggle village any magic he did use would be picked up by the Ministry and reported as underage magic which could get him expelled.

Harry was very aware that this horcrux had been strong enough, persuasive enough, or devious enough for Dumbledore to fall victim to it. But he had to hope that the ring, like the other horcruxes, would not have traps set around it. It wouldn’t really have served their purpose since they had thus far all appeared designed to be used by the first unsuspecting wizard to come along and that is when they unleashed their dark magic to kill the wizard in order to enable Voldemort’s return. So Harry hoped that he would be safe as long as he resisted any urges to put the ring on or even to touch it until the horcrux within had been destroyed.

And Harry did have one trick up his sleeve. He could call on Dobby and Kreacher if he got into trouble and both would try to help him. Dobby, he knew, had his own sort of powerful magic. He could also Floo to Madam Pomfrey’s and hopefully, she would be able to patch him up. But mostly, he just had to hope that his luck wouldn’t run out.

Harry carefully wrapped Gryffindor’s sword first in two layers of old Dursley hand-me-downs and then in his Invisibility Cloak, then he put that bundle in his school bag. The hilt stuck invisibly out of the top, but if he was careful about how he moved, it shouldn’t be a problem. He grabbed his money pouch and his wand as well, then went outside to summon the Knight Bus.

The enormous purple bus appeared with a bang not far up the street. The driver hit the brakes hard and the bus screeched and banged and finally lurched to a stop in front of him. The doors opened with a hiss and the conductor stepped out to say, “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I’m Aderyn Crewe, the conductor of the day. Where can we take you today, love?”

“Little Hangleton. Can you do that?” Harry asked.

“Can’t see why not,” she said. “Eleven sickles, unless you want tea and biscuits,” Ms Crewe said.

Harry shook his head and counted out the silver. Harry and Ms Crewe boarded and Harry took a seat near the front as the driver stepped hard on the accelerator. There were several passengers ahead of Harry to be dropped off and once they had to stop and pick up a new passenger, but shortly, Ms Crewe came over to tell him that Little Hangleton was up next. Harry was intensely curious as the bus made its last jump and appeared in the village that had been home to Voldemort’s parents. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but the scenery passing by the windows seemed a perfectly ordinary English village.

“Right-o, lad. Little Hangleton, or so me map says,” the driver called back.

Shakily, Harry got to his feet and disembarked.

As soon as he was clear, the bus took off again and rumbled down the narrow street, headed straight for a solid row of houses only to disappear with a bang just short of them. Harry took a moment to examine his surroundings. This area didn’t look right. The shack he was looking for would have to have been built at least before the Second World War but these houses seemed more modern.

Harry spent most of the afternoon searching. He eventually found the older section of the village and started walking the perimeter but it was several kilometers across and Harry wasn’t sure how near or far the shack would be from the edge of town. But finally as the sun set, he spotted a shack at the edge of a little, overgrown wood and found the energy to jog the rest of the way to it. The shack was nearly falling down now and had become overgrown with vines. Harry removed his sword from the bundle in his bag and used it to cut the vines that had grown across the door. There must have once been a knob and perhaps even a lock but the metal was gone now. Carefully, he was able to stick the sword in between the frame and the door and lever the old door open.

Inside, the shack was a single room. The wooden walls were rotting, the roof leaked, tendrils of vines poked through crevices, and the broken windows kept nothing out. There were dried leaves, dust, and rodent nests littering the floor and what remained of the decaying furniture. At the very center of the room was a table coated in a layer of dust and debris and there amongst it was the ring. His pulse was racing as he crossed the threshold into the gloom.

Nothing happened. At least not yet.

He took another careful step, and another, and another until suddenly, the spells sprang to life. The ring glowed with an internal light, searing off the thick layer of dust in a puff of smoke. No, Harry realized as the smoke continued and rose and formed into a shape all to familiar. Not smoke: a shade... of his mother. She looked exactly like he’d seen her in the woods on the day Snape died. He could smell the damp green scent of the forest and that in turn brought on the phantom smell of blood. There’d been so much blood on the floor—

“Harry,” she gasped, eyes welling with happy tears. “My god, you’ve grown so much.”

Harry shook himself from unpleasant memories. “More than you know, Mum... unless you remember about the forest,” Harry replied, but then wished he hadn’t. Of course she couldn’t remember something that hadn’t happened yet.

She got a far off look in her eyes for a moment before focusing back on him, brow wrinkled in confusion. “But how can you know about that?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

“How can you?” Harry countered stiffly, his ire rising. If she hadn’t known, he couldn’t really have blamed her, but now he felt betrayed.

“In a way, the dead are beyond time,” she said. “As soon as you mentioned it, I knew.”

“Right, well we’ll talk after I’ve dealt with the horcrux,” Harry said a bit snappishly. She and his father and godfather and Remus Lupin had all been there. These people who supposedly loved him, they’d told him to go to Voldemort, to submit to probable torture and certain death. “I have a thing or two to say to you about that.” He took another step forward.

“A ‘horcrux’ dear?  What’s that?” she asked, but it sounded oddly urgent, not that he had much experience with the dead, but what he did have suggested they didn’t get too distressed about anything. It made him suspicious, so he stopped his forward advance.

“It’s Dark Magic, Mum, and I have to destroy it,” he answered calmly.

“No, you mustn’t!  It’s too dangerous. Leave it for Professor Dumbledore. You be a good boy and take it back to him alright. Don’t try to destroy it by yourself.”

“I know what I’m doing, Mum,” Harry snapped, annoyed.

“Just take it with you,” she said, but now he was sure something was off in her tone and, looking at her now, she wasn’t looking quite so pearly white anymore either.

“I can’t do that. The thing is booby-trapped. What’s going on, Mum?” he asked cautiously. “Is Voldemort’s magic doing something to you?”

Suddenly, her whole body contorted and she screamed.

“Mum!” Harry gasped.

The magic let go and she slumped forward, her hair falling to curtain her face. She was breathing quickly from the pain. “You have to put the ring on, Harry. It’s the only way.”

Harry took two quick steps towards the ring, wincing as if that would help if he tripped any more traps. Just a bit more and he’d be close enough to strike the ring. “I can’t, Mum. It’s cursed. It would kill me,” he said, raising the sword.

She screamed again. “He’s hurting me!  Please!  Surely Dumbledore could save you from his curse!  And it would free me!  I could come back to you!”

Harry closed the rest of the distance and swung, the sword flashing. He was standing nearly nose to nose with his mother’s shade now, the suffering etched deeply into her grimacing, screaming face. Silver tears rolled down her cheeks.

“No!  Harry, you can’t do this to me!  I’m your mother!  I died so you could live!  Ahhhh!” she screamed and contorted further.

It hurt to hear and especially to see up close and he had to wrap the memories of the forest and of Snape’s memories of her betrayal around him like a cloak of anger to keep from yielding. The sword slammed into the stone on the ring and a fountain of sparks exploded from it. Harry leapt back just as his mother flickered and faded away. The surface of the ring rippled beneath his vision too. And then it stopped. Harry hesitantly inched forward again and prodded the ring with the tip of the sword but it did not produce any more sparks. He took this as a sign that the malevolent magic was gone and picked the ring up, clutching it in his fist with a desperate urgency.

“Mum?” he called.

But there was nothing.

He walked out into the sunlight and opened his fist to examine the ring. It didn’t seem any more damaged that when he’d got it out of the snitch. He rubbed his thumb over the cracked stone “Mum?  Dad?” he called again.

No one appeared.

A cold fear crept into the pit of his stomach. What if they just didn’t want to come?

“Mum?  Dad?  Please!  I’m sorry!” he pleaded. He needed them to come. He needed to talk to them. He needed to know that somehow, what they’d said in the forest had been because they loved him, even if he couldn’t understand it now.

But no one answered.

He hoped desperately that it was because he’d broken the Resurrection Stone. He could scarcely bear the alternative, no matter how angry he was at them. He felt his eyes burn and well up with tears. He’d lost them again. He dropped the ring into his pocket, angrily swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and grabbed his old clothes where he’d dropped and bundled the sword up again. Harry knew he’d just destroyed the last horcrux. There was no chance that Nagini had been made into a new one already, Voldemort still stuck as a spirit as he was. There was even a small chance that without horcruxes, the spirit wouldn’t be able to remain in the world. It should have been a victory, a cause for celebration. But he didn’t feel like celebrating. He took a ragged breath and scrunched his eyes up tight against tears. He just felt desperately alone and physically and emotionally drained.

He summoned the Knight Bus and went back to 12 Grimmauld Place.


	12. Match Day

_“Krum gets the Snitch — but Ireland wins — good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!” the announcer bellowed._

_“What did he catch the snitch for?” Ron shouted over the deafening roar of the crowds. “He ended it when Ireland was a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!”_

_“He knew they were never going to catch up!” Harry shouted at his friend. “The Irish Chasers were too good... he wanted to end it on his terms.”_

“Harry!  Harry, are you awake yet?!”

Harry was jerked out of sleep by the sound of someone knocking on his door. He tried to threaten to curse Hermione’s hair blue if she didn’t let him go back to sleep, but all he managed was a series of groans and yelps that utterly failed to get his point across.

“Harry, come on!  I’ve been here for two hours already!” Hermione yelled through his door.

He still felt like hell from yesterday and it had been a rough night, at least until the nightmares had at last given way to dreams of Quidditch, but Harry knew there was no hope of a lie in now. He sighed and rolled over. “Alright, I’m up!” Harry called groggily. “Why are you here so early anyway?!”

“Early?!  It’s 10:30, silly!  I’ll be in the kitchen,” Hermione called, sounding indecently excited for so early on a summer morning.

“But I’m tired,” Harry whinged. But he was already awake now so he sat up and threw the covers off, wiped the sleep from his eyes, grabbed his wand from under his pillow and some clothes from his wardrobe and shuffled out of the bedroom and down the corridor to the bathroom. When he emerged, he was awake and dressed and hungry so he headed straight for the basement.

“How are you here, Hermione?  Don’t I have to let you in?” he grumbled as he entered the kitchen.

“No. Kreacher did it,” Hermione said and handed him a plate of pancakes, already getting soggy with syrup the way he liked them.

“Thanks. Your parents are still okay with this, right?”

“Yeah. They practically kicked me out the door today. Thought I was too cheery for a Sunday morning.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Harry muttered, thinking longingly of his bed.

Hermione flicked a piece of orange peel at him in retaliation.

Harry mock glared at her as the peel soared by his ear, then went back to his breakfast.

“I should try and Floo the Burrow again today and just make sure Errol got there alright and they aren’t going to drop in on the Dursleys for no reason,” Harry said, halfway through his pancakes now, and stood up.

“Finish your breakfast first,” Hermione ordered.

Harry sat back down. “Yes, ma’am,” he teased.

Hermione grinned and polished off her orange, then collected up the peels and binned them.

“Besides calling the Weasleys, do we have any other plans today?” Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged and ate the rest of his pancakes. Then while Kreacher collected the dirty dishes, Hermione lit the fire for Harry and he tossed a pinch of Floo Powder into the flames.

“The Burrow!” Harry said. He hesitated just a moment and stuck his head into the green flames. While he didn’t feel like his head was spinning around like traveling bodily through the floo, he did get the sensation of travel as unintelligible sounds flew by on either side of his head before he slowed a bit as he neared his destination and then his head popped out into the Weasleys’ kitchen fireplace. The kitchen was empty, but Harry could hear a conversation going on in the next room and the sounds of laughter filtering in from outside.

“You and Rita Skeeter just don’t understand. I work with goblins, Mum, and to a goblin, a man’s just not a man unless he’s got a few holes in him.”

“Oh, Bill, I hardly think piercings are what they meant.”

“As long as it hurt to get, they’re not picky about the source, Mum. Goblins have piercing too.” Bill sounded very hen-pecked, “They quite like the fang as well, I’ll have you know.”

“Hello?” Harry called.

“Coming!” Mrs Weasley called. A moment later, she came bustling into the kitchen to see who was in the Floo. “Oh hello, Harry,” she said cheerfully. “We saw you in the paper a few weeks back, visiting the Ministry. You know if you’d wanted to go, Arthur would have shown you around. You didn’t have to bother the Minister himself,” she said, laughing good-naturedly.

Harry laughed uneasily. Behind Mrs Weasley’s back, Bill had closed his eyes and was shaking his head in embarrassment. Sometimes, Mrs Weasley could be a little naive.

“Really,” she insisted. “We’re always happy to help, Harry. Arthur’s at work, but if he were here, I’m sure he’d tell you the same thing.”

“Yeah, I know, Mrs Weasley,” Harry was quick to assure her.

“Anyway, are you ready to come through now?  I know we’d said we’d pick you up this afternoon, but if you’re ready early...”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley. Did Errol not make it home last night?” Harry said. “I got Ron’s letter and I was really surprised. I mean, I’m grateful for the invitation, but I already have other plans.”

“What?” Mrs Weasley gasped. “But Ronald said you two boys have been talking about the World Cup for weeks. Surely the muggles won’t keep you from going?”

“It’s not that,” Harry protested. “I am going to the World Cup. I bought my own ticket weeks ago, I have a tent and a camping site...”

“But I’m sure Ronald told me that the two of you have been planning this for ages. Bill, shout out the window for the children, would you?” she said.

Harry sighed, feeling helpless. He didn’t like letting the Weasleys down and he didn’t want them to feel like he didn’t care, but there was just no chance of changing his plans now.

Bill shouted and suddenly Weasleys were popping in from everywhere. Even Percy came running down the stairs from the upper floors of the Burrow to see Harry.

“Harry!  How’s it going?” Fred asked coming tearing inside with his broomstick in hand followed closely by George.

“Hey, Harry,” George called.

“Hi,” Ginny said quietly.

“Hey!  You must be Harry. Nice to meet you. I’m Charlie,” Charlie said. Harry had a moment of confusion before he realized that while he recognized Charlie, they’d technically never met.

“Harry!  You decided to come after all!” Ron exclaimed happily, coming last from outside with a quaffle in one hand and an old Comet broomstick in the other.

“Er, sorry, mate,” Harry said apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure you all knew I was sorry I couldn’t go with you. I wish I’d known you were planning to invite me sooner. We could have coordinated camping at least.”

“But you’ve got to come. It’s the World Cup!” Ron exclaimed, sounding scandalized.

“I am going,” Harry said. “I mean, I won’t have Top Box seats, but I’ll still get to see the match. I made my own plans weeks ago.”

“So change ’em. C’mon. There’s plenty of space in our tents and _we’ve_ got top box seats. You can’t beat that!” Ron said.

“I know,” Harry admitted. “Top box is pretty amazing, but I can’t. I’ve already promised to go with Hermione and if I switched and sat with you now, she’d end up having to sit all alone at the match and that’s not fair.”

Ron looked unhappy and was about to say something, but Mrs Weasley beat him to it.

“Oh, so does that mean Hermione is better now?” she asked hopefully.

“Um, yeah, I guess she is,” Harry said, hoping Hermione wasn’t supposed to keep to a different story.

Mrs Weasley sent Ron a motherly look. “You see, Ron, I told you everything would be fine in no time.”

“But Harry, I don’t understand. We’ve been talking about this match all summer,” Ron protested, throwing up his laden hands in bewilderment.

“I didn’t know you meant me too. I mean I thought when you said ‘We’ve got top box seats,’ and ‘We’re going to have a great time,’ that you were talking about you and your family. And you said outright that Hermione wasn’t going to be invited. What was I supposed to think?” Harry said defensively.

“It’s alright, Harry. We understand,” Bill said, watching Ron turn more red.

“But... now who’s going to take your seat?!” Ron exclaimed. “You’re supposed to come with us!”

“I’m sorry, Ron,” Harry said helplessly. “I’m sure you can find someone else to take the seat. Hermione mentioned maybe Percy’s girlfriend or, or, or... I don’t know. I’m sure I’m not the only person you can ask.”

Percy blushed. Ron growled in frustration and stormed out of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Harry. He’s just disappointed,” Mrs Weasley apologized.

“Me too,” Harry admitted, genuinely regretful that he’d miss staying with the Weasleys this year.

“Well surely you can at least come through for dinner tonight,” Mrs Weasley said, trying to cheer him up.

Harry was about to explain that he had plans for that too, since it was Dobby’s last day, but before he could, Percy spoke up.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mum. Remember, the Floo Network closes to all but official traffic at 10pm tonight. Harry wouldn’t want to get stranded when I’m sure he has to catch an early portkey to the match too.”

“Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me,” Mrs Weasley said. “Maybe after we all get back from the match then?”

“Yeah. That would be nice,” Harry said. He looked at all the Weasleys standing around the kitchen and felt a jolt of envy and the weight of loneliness.

“Well that’s good then. Why don’t we wait and see how long the match lasts and then we’ll figure something out, alright?” Mrs Weasley suggested.

Harry nodded. “That sounds great, Mrs Weasley. Thanks.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, smiling kindly.

“I should get back. Bye, everyone,” Harry said.

“Bye,” they chorused.

Harry pulled his head back through the Floo.

“So what did they say?” Hermione asked.

“They’re disappointed but hopefully we’ll see each other at the match or we can get together afterward, some time before school,” Harry said.

Hermione nodded. “So what are we going to do today?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting you until after dinner,” Harry said. “I was just going to hang around the house, probably get to sleep early so we can catch an early portkey tomorrow.”

*****

Harry’s feet slammed into the ground. Beside him, Hermione caught the little girl next to her as she stumbled. Most everyone else on the portkey fell and the circle of rope landed in the midst of it all with a soft thump.

“7:25 from the Leaky Cauldron,” a voice said from right behind Harry.

Harry turned around to see a pair of poorly-dressed wizards damp from the mist and looking tired. One went to pick up the rope. The other turned a page in his packet of parchment.

“Form a queue please and let’s see if we can’t get you all pointed to your proper campsites,” he said.

Harry and Hermione quickly stepped forward and the queue formed up behind them.

“Potter,” the man with the parchments muttered as he began scanning the list.

“Actually, it’s down as Granger,” Harry said, gesturing to Hermione.

“Ah,” the man said, frowning and starting at the top of the page again. “A mile and a half that way,” he said, pointing to a path just visible through the mist disappearing off into a wood. “The site manager’s called Mr Cameron.”

Harry and Hermione thanked him and headed off down the path. For awhile, they walked almost blind through the misty wood, periodically passing other witches and wizards, past a different campsite, then suddenly the massive shape of the stadium appeared, looming, out of the mist.

“Wow!” Hermione gasped.

The gold walls towered above them and even in the mist, they seemed to glow and glitter.

“This is amazing!” Hermione gasped, craning her neck to take in as much of the stadium as possible in the mist. “To build something of this scale without muggles noticing... the magic involved must be fascinating!”

They walked on another twenty minutes or so until a little wooden cabin popped up out of the mist. A sign on the roof read _Cameron Campsite_. A smaller sign that said _No Vacancy_ was stuck in the ground where a narrow footpath broke off from the main one at the cabin to head towards a gate in a low fence that disappeared off into the mist.

As they approached the cabin, a bruiser of a man opened the door and stepped outside, clipboard in one hand. He walked with a cane and a slight limp. He was wearing a jacket with military patches on the sleeves and the insignia of the Black Watch Regiment stitched over his heart.

“Are you Mr Cameron?” Hermione asked.

“I am, lass. Where’re yer parents?”

“Er, they’ll be along,” Hermione lied not quite convincingly. “Can we check in and start pitching the tent?”

Just then, a man in a long, flowery nightgown came walking out of the mist at a very brisk pace along the main path, followed closely by a Ministry wizard waving a pair of pinstripe trousers. The first man called back over his shoulder, “I won’t change and you can’t make me!  I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, I tell you!”

“A fine sentiment,” Mr Cameron said, completely nonplussed, not even looking in the wizard’s direction. Mr Cameron hooked the top of his cane over his forearm and then unclipped a pen from the top of the clipboard. “Name?”

“Granger,” Harry said.

“Plot 124. There’ll be a stake with your name on when you find it. That’ll be ten Pounds a night for two nights, cash in hand,” he said. He clipped the pen back to the board and held out a hand.

Harry dug into his pocket and took out a twenty Pound note and passed it over.

“Right,” Mr Cameron said, tucking the note into the pocket of his jacket. “There’s a well for potable water bang center of the site and latrines are just round the back here. Keep ’em clean or I’ll charge the whole site a fee on check out.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. He doubted very much that that would be a problem. Wizards tended to have full bathrooms in their tents.

Harry and Hermione went through the gate. The site had to be pretty big, but it was hard to tell in the mist. There were certainly a lot of witches and wizards here. Some of the tents they passed seemed as mundane and muggle as their own from the outside. A few had little problems like chimneys or bell pulls. But here and there, a tent was so obviously magical that Harry wondered how they were allowed to stay. Tents weren’t supposed to be three stories high with balconies and any muggle who saw them would have to be obliviated.

There were witches and wizards everywhere, mostly just standing around talking. Occasionally, a group would disappear into a tent. Many people sat out in front of their tents around small fires, but often those fires burned with flames no normal wood could achieve — green and red, the colors of the teams playing were the most popular colors as fans sought to show their spirit. They saw a few people they knew from school: Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, a couple of Ravenclaws and the Greengrass sisters from Slytherin, but they didn’t stop to talk to anyone. They’d already been walking for a while and wanted to pitch their tent and rest first.

“We’d better find our spot soon,” Harry said, looking up the row at where red and black ropes cordoned off the back third of the campground. Men in official-looking, fur-trimmed uniforms milled about just beyond the ropes, keeping an eye on anyone who got too close to the barrier.

“Are those the Bulgarians?” Hermione wondered.

“I guess the team could be staying there. Or their government officials, maybe,” Harry speculated, craning his neck to try and see. It would be cool to share a campsite with one of the Quidditch teams competing in the Cup.

“They sure brought a lot of security,” Hermione commented.

“Oh, here’s our site,” Harry interrupted. Just two spots short of the barrier, one of the last empty spaces in the campsite was marked by a wooden stake that said _GRANGER_ in black block letters. Harry took his schoolbag with his clothing and belongings in it off his shoulder and set it down on the ground then hefted the tent pack off his back. Hermione set her overnight bag down and came over to help Harry unpack and pitch their tent. It didn’t take too long with both of them working together capably and soon they could stand back to survey their tent with satisfaction.

Hermione unfastened the flap and went inside. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a bit of a nap.”

“We have time,” Harry reminded her as he walked through to his temporary bedroom and dropped his bag.

“You won’t mind if I go to bed for a little while, will you?” she asked.

“Not at all. I probably will too,” Harry said, returning to the main room. “I want to set some of the tent’s security spells first though.”

“Okay,” Hermione said, and disappeared into her bedroom. Ten minutes later, Harry had finished setting up and, tired from the early morning and the long walk, nipped off to bed for a couple of hours rest. A Quidditch match could go on for days and this one was bound to be fantastic. If it ran long, he’d want to be well rested for it.

As the hour of the match slowly approached, the excitement in the camp grew in leaps and bounds. By then, the mist had fully cleared and the volume in among the tents soared. Witches and wizards strolled up and down rows, chatting with friends and greeting acquaintances. Low-level Ministry employees scurried between tents, ordering people to stop any overtly magical behavior without much success. More important Ministry officials arrived later in the day to visit the Bulgarian camp. Among them, only Ludo Bagman spotted Harry. He ducked under the red cordon to pay a special visit to Harry’s camping plot.

“Hello there, Harry,” Bagman said jovially. “Isn’t this wonderful!  So, have you seen Krum yet, in the flesh?  I remember you were quite keen on his poster when you visited my department.”

“Hello, Mr Bagman. No, I haven’t seen him. Not yet anyways,” Harry said.

“Only a matter of time, right?” Bagman said, gesturing to the official Bulgarian encampment. “And if Bulgaria does manage to somehow pull a win out against our Ireland, well, you’ll see Krum up close in the Top Box for the presentation of the trophy.”

“Oh, we aren’t in the Top Box,” Harry said. “Just regular bleacher seats.”

“I’m sure I saw your name on the list,” Bagman said, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Last minute change of plans,” Harry said with an awkward forced smile. “I’m sure the game will be great. I bet Krum will catch the snitch, but I think Ireland will win it.”

“Really?” Bagman said, looking sly. “You’d bet, would you?  Because I just happen to have a little wager pool.” He pulled a notebook and a money pouch out of his robes.

Harry considered. “Why not?  I’ll put five galleons on Ireland to win, with Krum getting the snitch.”

“Been talking to the Weasley twins, I see,” Bagman commented off-handedly as he wrote Harry’s bet down.

“Oh, have you seen the Weasleys?  Where are they?” Hermione interjected.

“On the other side of the stadium,” Bagman said dismissively and then turned back to Harry. “Well, in the unlikely event that you win that bet, at these odds, you would get fifty galleons. I’ll take your five.”

Harry took his money pouch from his pocket and dug into his pocket money. “Here you go,” he said, counting out five galleons and passing them over. They disappeared into Bagman’s brown pouch.

“This is just thrilling, isn’t it,” Bagman said. “It’s going to be a wonderful match. I should be getting along. So much to do still,” he said, closing his notebook with a snap. And then he darted off.

Hermione watched his retreating yellow and black striped back with a deep scowl before turning to Harry. “You shouldn’t bet, Harry. You’ve just given away five galleons.”

“It’s nothing I can’t afford to lose, Hermione,” Harry said. “Let’s get lunch going.”

Harry went inside to quickly prep the food while Hermione worked on starting the fire in the fire circle at the front of the plot.

“Oh my god, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, bursting in just minutes later. “Snape is out there.”

“What?  Why?” Harry asked, tensing up. Had Snape been sent to bring him into line?

“He’s next door!  That’s Snape’s tent over there,” she said, gesturing broadly towards the tent that sat between theirs and the Bulgarian team’s camp.

“Oh,” Harry said. He certainly hadn’t unexpected that.

‘‘‘Oh?!’ Is that all you have to say, Harry?  It’s Snape!  He’s awful to you. I was expecting some huge blow up,” Hermione said melodramatically.

“You expected me to blow up?  Me?  From Ron, sure, but I sort of like Snape. I mean, he did try to save our lives at great risk to his own a couple of months ago. That’s a big thing for a Slytherin, right?” Harry said, a little surprised at what Hermione was saying.

Hermione threw up her arms in astonishment. “Boys!  I don’t understand you. One day Snape’s the evil bat of the dungeons and the next you tell me he’s some sort of hero to you. Did you forget that we knocked him unconscious for a reason that night?”

“And that reason was that we’re all mad and—” Harry snapped, rolling his eyes.

“No!  It’s because he didn’t care that Sirius was innocent!  He wouldn’t listen!” Hermione shouted, waving her hands emphatically.

“Yeah, because he was facing three disobedient students, a professor he thought was aiding a criminal and a supposed mass-murderer, Hermione!  When those are the odds, I’d curse first and ask question later too!” Harry shouted back.

Hermione seemed to shrink back into her usual self-contained state as she considered. “Well, okay. I guess I see your point. I just... Harry, you really never have liked Snape. I’m not making that up.”

“I know,” Harry admitted, realizing full well that it had to be confusing for the people around him that he’d grown up so suddenly. “But what happened to me, its changed me, Hermione. I know next to what happened to you, it seems silly, but—”

“Are you kidding me?” Hermione interrupted angrily.

“What?  No. What do you mean?” Harry quickly back-pedaled, though he wasn’t sure what exactly she’d found offensive.

“Harry, across Europe each year, 17.6 people get turned into werewolves... well, that’s just the cases that are reported, but that’s not the point," she rattled off rapidly, so distressed that she neglected to consider that .6 of a person could not be turned into a werewolf. "Do you know how many people have survived being Kissed by a dementor?”

Harry winced. “Please don’t tell me I’m the only one.”

“No, but it’s close. There’s been six reported instances of someone surviving a Dementor’s Kiss. You’re number seven. Ever, Harry!  Ever!  But that’s my point, you see. Don’t try to make my condition bigger than it is!”

Harry held up his hands placatingly. “I’m sorry. That’s... I didn’t realize it sounded like that. I just meant you’ve had a life-changing event too so my problems probably don’t rank very high on your list of concerns right now. That’s all I meant.”

“Alright,” Hermione relented, calming down at last. “As long as you understand I don’t want to be treated any differently, not by you. I know I’m going to have enough of that in my life from the ignorant and I won’t tolerate it from you. I get that you’ve changed. You’re more mature and more, I don’t know, deliberate, driven maybe. I guess I forgot that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said, eager to put the whole thing behind them now that it was sorted. “Did you get the fire started?”

“Oh, no. Sorry. It wasn’t working and then I got distracted when Snape walked right by,” Hermione said.

Harry sighed. “I’ll give it a try.”

Harry, trailed closely by Hermione, went back outside and knelt around the fire circle. Harry made a few attempts to get the fire going, but still couldn’t manage it.

“This isn’t working,” Harry announced, flicking away a burnt match in irritation. Hermione shrugged and looked helplessly at him. Her stomach growled loudly and she blushed. Harry’s shoulders sagged. “Sorry,” he said, feeling useless.

“Three years in my class and you still can’t light a proper fire, Mr Potter?” a familiar, sneering voice called from the plot next door.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath before standing up and turning to Snape. He might like the man, but he could do without the snide comments when he was frustrated about something. “Well that depends on whether or not I can use a wand,” Harry called back. “I don’t suppose you have any tips on how to do this the muggle way?” he asked, though he felt there were probably equal odds on Snape lecturing them or simply gloating and leaving them to fumble through it on their own.

Snape glared at Harry from the other side of his own fire and Harry felt sure it would be the latter, but then Snape rolled his eyes, stepped around his own fire, and came to stand beside theirs. He surveyed their work with a look of disgust.

“Potter, I expect this sort of sloppiness from you but surely you, Ms Granger, must have read a book or ten about camping before attempting it. Where are your parents, Ms Granger, or your guardians, Mr Potter?”

Harry scoffed at the absurd idea of the Dursleys in a place like this. He could just picture it now: Dudley standing very still outside the tent, his hands jammed over his bottom... Petunia craning her head from side to side and making frantic little huffing noises at the disgracefulness of all their neighbors... Vernon, gone the color of a half-rotted aubergine, standing outside the tent blustering about freaks and refusing to budge never mind that he’d probably be a lot happier if he’d just step into the mag— err, the freaky tent where he could probably convince himself they were in a cabin somewhere far away and deny the whole of the world around him. Oh, yes. That was his family.

“We’re here alone, Professor,” Hermione said, trying to sound confident though her expression failed to match. “My parents and Harry’s guardians are muggles and didn’t want to come.”

“So they let you go unsupervised?” Snape asked, eyes piercing Hermione’s timid look.

“They thought I needed to get out,” Hermione muttered, embarrassed.

Snape held her gaze almost as if the stretching silence would pull a different truth from her. At last, he looked away. “Why, when you obviously can’t manage something as simple as lighting a campfire...” he muttered. “Watch carefully!” Snape knelt and deftly corrected the deficiencies of their charcoal mound and easily got their fire going.

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” Hermione said with heartfelt gratitude as her stomach rumbled loudly again.

“I did not sign up to be child minder today,” Snape muttered bitterly.

“You don’t have to mind us,” Hermione protested, slightly indignant.

“Someone clearly has to,” Snape snapped severely.

“We won’t be any trouble,” Harry promised.

“The sky would sooner fall than a Potter be no trouble at all,” Snape sneered.

Harry looked up at the sky and feigned a worried expression. Beside him, Hermione giggled at his antics but Snape was not amused.

“Potter!” Snape spat angrily.

Harry threw his hands up in surrender, looking nevertheless genuinely amicable, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I will not tolerate disrespect!  You’ve thrust yourself on me in the middle of my very well-deserved, entirely too short holiday with the same callous disregard and shameful arrogance that continually leads you, Potter, into risking life and limb for little more than the publicity,” Snape’s voice was barely above a whisper but that only contributed to its viciousness, “and that led you, Ms Granger, to be so utterly foolish as to put yourself knowingly in the path of a fully-transformed and wild werewolf!”

Hermione’s expression melted into tears and she fled into the tent.

“You didn’t have to say that,” Harry snapped angrily. “I don’t care what you say about me but you didn’t have to do that to Hermione. It wasn’t our idea, you know. She wouldn’t have gone if Dumbledore hadn’t asked us to. I told her it was daft but he’s Dumbledore and she trusted him.”

Snape froze, an intense look of scrutiny bearing down on Harry. “What do you mean by that, Potter?” he demanded, dangerously quiet.

“I mean, Dumbledore told us what to do: to get Buckbeak the hippogriff and fly to the window where Sirius was being kept — he told us how to find the right window from the outside — and we were supposed to somehow fly away with Sirius’s body, I guess. Hermione wouldn’t have thought of it on her own. Dumbledore gave her the idea and told her ‘three turns should do it.’ I told him ‘No,’ but Hermione trusted him more than me, I guess,” Harry said in a rush of bitterness.

Snape’s face was stony as he took in what Harry had told him. At last, he said, “Would you swear on your magic that that’s the truth?”

Harry nodded slowly and reached for his wand pocket. He wanted Snape to believe him, to know what Dumbledore had done, and Harry wanted him to know now, before it was too late.

“Don’t do it, you imbecile!” Snape exclaimed, making a snatch for Harry’s wand.

“But you said—” Harry protested, twisting to keep his wand out of Snape’s reach.

“I asked if you would, I didn’t tell you to do it!” Snape snapped angrily.

Harry glared at him, crossly. If Snape was just trying to trip him up, to bully him with ridiculous little distinctions like that...!

“I had to know,” Snape said, then his vicious expression wilted. “That does change things,” he admitted with some reluctance.

If it was in some way meant as an apology for his nasty remarks, it left a lot to be desired, Harry felt, but he wasn’t about to push the issue.

Silence stretched between them, quickly growing awkward. Harry took it upon himself to fill it with something he hoped Snape would accept. “Professor, thank you for coming after us that night. We could have been in serious danger. I didn’t appreciate that at the time, but I do now. I’m very grateful to you and I’m also sorry we attacked you.”

Rather than turning nasty at the memory, Snape’s expression seemed weary. “You can thank me, Potter, by staying out of trouble.”

“I plan to, Professor, I really do,” Harry assured him, though silently he was just wishing it were possible.

Snape considered him for a moment, then nodded. “I’m just in the next tent if you need me, Potter, but do us both a favor and don’t need anything.” It was delivered without menace, just tired acceptance of the situation.

Harry nodded and Snape went back to his own site.


	13. The Quidditch World Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I know that the scores mentioned here are not the canon scores. I feel that there is a lot of chance in sport and so I have kept only that which is down more to skill than to chance.

Harry started heating the pan to toast their sandwiches. Hermione didn’t reappear right away, but a bit later, she tentatively peeled back the tent flap and peered out. Seeing Snape was still fairly close, outside his own tent, she hesitated, but then squared her shoulders and marched out, chose a seat with her back to Snape, and sat. She threw some foil packets of veg onto the coals, then sat back to wait while Harry cooked their sandwiches.

“You know, I never really thought about what teachers do outside of school,” she said softly enough that only Harry would hear.

“Yeah. He’s a normal guy, I guess,” Harry said.

After lunch, they cleaned up their dishes and trash and put away the leftovers, then sat outside, roasting marshmallows over the coals and talking. All around them, it grew rowdier as the match neared. The overt displays of magic were also becoming more common and the Ministry seemed to have given up trying to stop them. Then a little old wizard came racing up their row of tents, darting around campfires and the general social traffic, and ran right past them.

“Snape!” a little wizard dressed in purple shouted as he skidded to a stop outside Snape’s tent and gasped, “Urgent news from Dumbledore. Very troubling indeed. It’s been stolen, right out of his office at Hogwarts!”

“What are you blathering about, Doge?” Snape demanded angrily, standing to tower over the man, glowering at him.

“Gryffindor’s sword!” the old wizard exclaimed.

Snape snarled at him. “You should know better than to discuss such matters in the open!” Snape whipped out his wand and cast a charm that abruptly ended Harry and Hermione’s eavesdropping.

“Oh no!” Hermione gasped, turning to look at him fearfully. “Who would steal from the Headmaster?”

Harry scowled. Of course he hadn’t expected the theft to go unnoticed, but it was frightening nevertheless that he could be discovered and fingered for it at any moment. “I bet Dumbledore thinks it’s a Death Eater,” Harry said.

“What would a Death Eater want with Gryffindor’s Sword?” Hermione asked, confused.

Harry bit his lip. She had him there. Without revealing that he knew certain information that he shouldn’t, he couldn’t really explain. So he shrugged and said, “Seems like most of the trouble at Hogwarts lately comes back to them.”

Hermione considered this, then said, “Well I hope this time it doesn’t fall to us to stop it.”

“That would be nice,” Harry said wholeheartedly.

Around three in the afternoon, the stadium lights went on, lighting up the overcast sky and the site started to empty out as people headed in that direction. Harry and Hermione excitedly joined them.

*****

All around them, fans were screaming. The score board read BULGARIA: 190, IRELAND:210 and Krum was circling the pitch with his arm held high, the glint of the gold snitch fluttering in his hand. Bulgarian fans groaned. Sure, they hadn’t scored in over an hour and Ireland had just been gaining and gaining but to lose by 20 points at the end was bitter. Still, they had their seeker to celebrate and they did applaud him as he passed them in his circuit. But it was drowned out as the Ireland fans realized that even though they’d lost the snitch, they’d still won the match.

The leprechauns leapt into the air, leaving the veela behind to sulk. Krum landed next to the medical stand and mediwizards hurried to take care of the wounds on his face and set his badly broken nose.

“He was very brave, wasn’t he,” Hermione said, taking her omnioculars away from her face and turning to Harry. She was grinning ear to ear and flushed with excitement.

“And I won that bet,” Harry said, smirking at her.

The top box, far off to their right and a long way up, lit up brightly. Through his omnioculars, Harry tried to make out the Weasleys but the way the lights were positioned, he could only see the very front of the box where Bagman stood and where the Bulgarian Minister stood to receive his national team. First the Bulgarian Minister shook hands with each of the Bulgarian players as Bagman announced their names again. Krum received an enormous cheer when it was his turn. Then an enormous trophy was carried in and Bagman announced the Irish team player by player. Lynch was in such bad shape that he was being supported by Moran and Connolly. Troy and Quigley accepted the cup for the team and lifted it triumphantly into the air to thunderous applause from the crowd.

They all heard Bagman cast Quietus and knew that was the end of the match. Harry stood and quickly collected his belongings. “Come on, Hermione. If we hurry and beat the rush, maybe we can catch the Weasleys as they leave the top box.”

But everyone was getting up to leave now and they couldn’t move faster than the thousands of people in front of them. They climbed the stairs and exited the bleachers onto the concourse level, pushed through the crowds on the concourse until they found the base of the top box, and then Harry elbowed his way through the crowd of autograph hunters. The Bulgarian guards stopped him from pushing past any players and effectively blocked his way to the top box.

“Let’s just wait here,” Hermione called to him over the din. “They have to come down sometime.”

They waited for a little while. Harry seriously considered asking Krum for his autograph but more than half of the autograph-hunters were excitable teenage girls and Harry would have hated to put himself in the same category as them. Besides, he felt certain he’d see Krum again soon. Krum was familiar, more familiar than just a famous Quidditch player should be.

Several people came down from the top box. The Malfoys and Fudge came down the stairs, Lucius talking and Fudge listening intently. They passed without noticing Harry or Hermione. Soon, a large group came down the stairs, several of them in Bulgarian colors. The Bulgarian guards and team staff collected the players and led the whole group away through the path of fans still wanting autographs.

“Look, Harry. There’s Bagman. He looks really worried about something,” Hermione said, pointing where a yellow and black clad figure had separated from the Bulgarian group.

Harry looked in the direction Hermione pointed to see Bagman trying to edge along the wall towards the nearest exit. “Come on,” he said, grabbing Hermione’s arm and going after him. “I want my 50 galleons for that bet.”

Harry pushed through the crowd and slowly they were gaining on Bagman. By the time there got through the gate, they were just behind him.

“That sure was a great game, Mr Bagman,” Harry said, falling into step beside Bagman’s and grinning broadly. He held out his hand and Bagman’s face fell.

“And I owe you, too. How much was it again?  25 galleons?”

“50,” Harry said definitely.

“Oh yes, that’s right,” Bagman said with a sigh and began patting his pockets. He found his red money pouch and sadly counted out 50 gold coins. With an air of depression, he passed them to Harry who grinned.

“Thank you, Mr Bagman,” he said.

Bagman didn’t wait around. He took off right quickly, in fact, leaving Harry and Hermione exchanging puzzled looks.

“All that gold’s not going to fit in your pockets. Here, you can put that in my handbag until we get back to the tent,” Hermione said, unzipping her purse and holding it open to Harry.

“Thanks,” he said and dumping the mound of coins into her bag. “I still haven’t seen the Weasleys though.”

They wove among the crowd moving the other direction, back towards the Top Box. But the crowds leaving thinned out without a sign of the Weasleys.

“I guess we missed them,” Hermione said, fidgeting impatiently.

Harry watched her fidget and sighed. “Alright. Let’s go back to our tent.”

Hermione seemed relieved. “We have to go this way,” she said, already leading the way off path and around the stadium where just a few minutes later, they joined the path towards the Cameron campsite.

By the time they made it back to their plot at the site, the waxing moon was high overhead and the overwhelming blaze of the stadium lights had given way to the faintly twinkling stars.

Back at their tent, Hermione opened her purse and counted out Harry’s galleons. “Here, take your galleons.”

Harry accepted them with a smile and lazily tossed them into his overnight bag with the rest of his belongings.

“We need some cocoa,” Hermione called. “Where’d we pack the kettle?”

“On the dish shelf in the storage room,” Harry said, reappearing from his bedroom.

Hermione disappeared into the back room and returned with their black kettle, then she went to the bathroom and filled it from the tent’s water supply.

“Does this mean we have to ask Snape to light the fire again?” Harry asked.

Hermione didn’t look thrilled with the idea, but the prospect of cocoa won out and she went next door to talk to Snape. Snape had beaten them back to the site and had already restarted his fire and put a kettle on for his evening tea. Rather than help them restart theirs for the second time that day, he put Harry and Hermione’s kettle beside his. When it was boiling though, he sent them back to their tent to mix up their hot cocoa and leave him in peace.

Hermione and Harry sat outside their tent, sipping cocoa and recounting the best bits of the match until quite late. Lights went out in the tents nearby one by one as slowly, the site went to sleep. Around 9:30, the Bulgarian Quidditch team returned to their campsite and disappeared into the tents behind the black and red ropes and the row of guards. They must have had a curfew because the lights outside their tents were switched off at exactly 10. Shortly thereafter, Harry decided it was getting late enough and they ought to go to bed before Snape felt the need to come over and see them off.

*****

Harry shivered and shook, tossed and turned in his bed. His hair was plastered to his forehead from sweat. Suddenly, he leapt out of bed, wide awake, heart racing, breathing very fast and yet somehow not getting enough air.

“Oh god,” he gasped, staggering backwards, falling against the wall and sinking down to the floor. That had been a truly horrendous dream, only he had no idea now just what he’d been dreaming about, only that it had left him feeling afraid, anxious, exposed. He could blame the adrenaline from the match, or being in a field surrounded by strange wizards, or just being out from behind wards he trusted (though maybe he didn’t trust the Black wards that much after all given all the effort he’d put into learning the Fidelius Charm). But no, mostly he blamed it on the pattern of insomnia and vivid nightmares. And it had to have been a really intense dream, probably based on something that had happened in his other life, if his complete lack of recall despite how badly affected he was by it was anything to go by.

He still couldn’t catch his breath. _Need air,_ he thought desperately. So he pulled himself up off the floor. He had to stop and lean against the wall as his vision vanished for a moment but then he recovered enough to stumble outside, gasping, into the cool, dark night.

“Potter!” Snape was just passing by the tent, cloaked in black and wearing a robe when Harry burst out of the tent. “What’s happened?”

“Can’t... breathe,” Harry gasped between breaths.

“Were you poisoned?  Cursed?” Snape demanded.

Harry shook his head. “Just... a dream,” he rasped.

A look of relief crossed Snape’s face before it disappeared again. “Alright, listen, Potter: take deep breaths. Slow down.”

Snape took Harry by the shoulders and pushed him into one of the camping chairs Harry and Hermione had left out. Snape pulled the other one up next to Harry’s and sat in it himself.

“Slow and deep, just take your time and it’ll get better,” Snape said quietly.

“Can’t... breathe,” Harry gasped with hand gestures of annoyance. He couldn’t get enough air and Snape wanted him to breathe slower?

“I know. You’re hyperventilating. Trust me, Potter,” Snape said. “Breathe in slowly, hold it, and breathe out.” Snape repeated his directions like a mantra, barely above a whisper but no less hypnotizing for its quiet, and Harry slowly calmed down enough that the black feathering around the edges of his vision receded and he no longer felt like he needed to throw up, pass out, and die in equal measure.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered tiredly. He noticed with some embarrassment that he was trembling and hoped vainly that Snape would simply put it down to some slight chill in the air.

“I was told you were doing well. All the staff were. Were we misinformed?” Snape asked stiffly.

“Sometimes I just have trouble sleeping,” Harry said trying and failing to sound nonchalant. He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s nothing. I can handle it.”

“This episode concerns me. What caused this, this time specifically?” Snape asked.

“It’s never happened before, not like this,” Harry tried to explain. “It was just another nightmare.”

“So why did this one frighten you so badly?” Snape asked. His tone remained impassive but his continued interest proved he was worried.

“I... I’ve been having these really vivid nightmares lately,” Harry admitted. “This one was bad.”

Snape’s whole demeanor changed. He sat forward and his new attentiveness pressed in on Harry. “Vivid nightmares, you say. Often?  Have you had any flashbacks?”

Harry shook his head nervously.

“Have you been jumpy, unreasonably vigilant, depressed, mistrustful?” Snape demanded. “Have you been feeling alone or alienated?  Do you have trouble remembering important parts of what happened to you?”

Harry shrunk back in his seat. “N-no,” he stammered, overwhelmed by the list. “Well, okay, sometimes,” he amended uncomfortably, “but I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.”

“Be that as it may, Potter, these things still must be addressed.” Snape cursed under his breath. “Merlin!  I thought Pomfrey was looking after you.”

“She did. She visited and did some scans and said there was nothing wrong with me,” Harry protested.

Snape scrubbed his eyes tiredly with one hand and when it drew away, he looked even more defeated. “Scans wouldn’t detect this,” he said, sounding weary.

“Why?  What’s wrong with me?” Harry asked fearfully. Snape’s reactions were really worrying him and his mind was a very creative place when he had too little information.

“Nothing,” Snape said dismissively. “It’s nothing. It just means someone will have to be more hands-on, helping you cope with what happened to you. I’ll talk to Pomfrey and I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”

“Oh, you mean... this is about, er, the dementor...” Harry muttered when he realized Snape was talking about the sorts of problems Harry and plenty of others had picked up on the battlefields of the second war with Voldemort. “So will this, err, go away?” Harry asked sheepishly. He hadn’t exactly had the chance to find out what happened after the battlefield trauma was left behind. He’d had a bit of trouble with time before they’d made it that far.

Snape shrugged noncommittally. ‘‘‘Go away’ isn’t really the right phrase. But you’ll grow from this and learn to move on.”

“Oh,” Harry said, ambivalent as to whether that suggested hard work with few rewards or if it at least merited some hope. He chose to hope; he had to — he was out to create a better future, after all. “What do I have to do?”

“You trust Madam Pomfrey, don’t you?” Snape asked, frowning deeply.

Harry nodded and waited for Snape to continue.

“Then you have to keep trusting her and let her help you when you need it.” With great reluctance, he added. “I’ll help you too. If you need sleeping potions, I’ll have to give them to you. Trauma-induced dreams are difficult for potions to block. We’ll have to work on the dosage and find one that works.”

Harry nodded contemplatively. “Okay. I can do that, I think. And... thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” Snape snapped.

“You cared. That counts for something,” Harry said, thinking of all the adults in his life who couldn’t even claim that much.

Snape glared so hard, his left eye started to twitch. “Go back to bed, Potter. Now,” he snapped.

Harry chuckled softly at the face Snape was making. “Goodnight, Professor Snape,” he said and obeyed Snape’s order. In the wake of his attack of panic, he was left feeling physically exhausted and Snape had taken his mind off the dream he couldn’t remember. He was getting tired again. He fell asleep and managed to sleep through to morning.

Hermione woke up first and bravely approached Snape to re-light the campfire, then began making the pancakes she and Harry had chosen for breakfast.

Harry finally appeared as she was taking the last of the pancakes off the fire. He sat down and helped himself to a plate. She pulled a foil packet out of the coals, set it between them and tore it open. The aroma of cooked apples and cinnamon billowed from within.

“Mmm,” Harry moaned, leaning in to smell them. “I didn’t know those were on the menu.”

“They weren’t, but we brought cinnamon for toast and apples as a snack and since the game didn’t last a week, I figured we wouldn’t need them and I could use them as I liked. Did you want some?”

“Yes!” Harry exclaimed, excitedly grabbing his fork and holding out his plate.

“Well serve yourself then!  I made them, you can take it from here,” she snapped indignantly. “Hey, leave me some!”

Harry retreated with roughly his half of the apples and, moaning with delight, smeared them all over the tops of his pancakes which were already swimming in syrup.

Hermione served herself and sat down to eat with rather more dignity. She tried to strike up a conversation, but mostly seemed to be talking to herself while Harry ate with a single-mindedness Hermione usually associated only with Ron. She was relieved when the Daily Prophet delivery owls arrived and brought Harry out of it.

“Merlin!” he gasped as he unfolded the paper and saw the headline and cover photo. So Voldemort’s spirit wasn’t destroyed with the last horcrux. He was still out there somewhere.

 _SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP_ , the headline read in huge letters. Beneath it was a big black and white photograph of the Dark Mark twinkling in the sky over the stadium. Harry quickly read the article.

“Has Voldemort returned?” Hermione asked with a mixture of disbelief and second-hand fear. Like most of her generation, Hermione could hardly be expected to have memories of the last war or its aftermath so she could only grasp how serious the return of Voldemort could be in a diluted sort of way, through books with dry facts and figures or the occasional inspirational or mournful anecdote from those who’d lived it.

Harry’s breath hitched hearing her say his name. “No. Read on,” he said with rather more confidence than he felt. It sounded like his followers knew it was only a matter of time, but he hadn’t found a way to get a body back yet. At least, Harry dearly hoped he hadn’t. It ought to take until the end of the school year, Harry was almost certain. His journal notes weren’t very clear on how, but they were precise about when. He was supposedly going to be snatched from the third task of the Triwizard Tournament and taken to You-Know-Who’s resurrection.

“Lax security?  Dark wizards running unchecked?  Was this Skeeter woman at the same match as we were?” Hermione said bewilderedly as she read.

Harry, who was continuing to read the same article in his own copy of the paper, suddenly broke out in a wry grin. “Malfoy’s in trouble. Apparently, his wand was found at the scene. They’re saying he wasn’t there but Rita Skeeter claims it was a cover up. I wish I could believe her.”

“But it’s in the paper,” Hermione said, looking confused about why Harry would question the article.

Harry scoffed. _Oh, Hermione, you have so much to learn,_ he thought. Out loud, he said, “The Prophet is hardly an impartial source, Hermione, and Rita Skeeter is the worst of the worst. She’ll make mountains out of molehills to sell papers and if she can’t find any molehills, she’ll make it all up from scratch.”

“You can’t know that!” Hermione gasped.

“The proof’s in the article, Hermione!” Harry laughed. “Look, they quote Mr Weasley by name saying he personally returned Malfoy’s wand. Do you really believe that Mr Weasley of all people would publicly involve himself in a cover-up that benefited a Malfoy?”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “Well, I see what you mean. But then why don’t they fire her?” she demanded. She seemed very reluctant to accept that seemingly reputable print sources could be biased or downright fraudulent.

“Because her stories sell newspapers,” Harry told her patiently.

“But that’s not right!” Hermione protested.

Harry just shrugged.

“So did any of this stuff really happen?” Hermione asked, trying out skepticism.

“I’m sure there was some sort of mayhem at one of the campsites on the other side of the stadium and I’m sure the Dark Mark was cast with Draco Malfoy’s wand. They have a picture of the Dark Mark and those are facts that it would be far too easy to disprove if she’d only made them up... plus the Malfoys would have her charged with libel if it wasn’t true. The bit about ‘rumors that bodies were removed’ sounds like rubbish to me and I’m sure she’s inflated everything a bit. I suppose we’ll find out from Ron soon though. He’ll probably write as soon as he gets home and tell us everything.”

Hermione seemed to consider this thoughtfully. “I think I’ll wait and hear what the Weasleys have to say. I just don’t think the newspaper can be as wrong as you think but we’ll know soon enough.”

Harry didn’t push on to remind her that Ron was rather excitable and prone to exaggeration too. He trusted her to realize that on her own. So they finished reading their papers and eating their breakfast without further confrontation, cleaned up, smothered the fire, then began the hard work of packing up their things and taking down their tent. This time, Harry left his bag in the tent. It was just less work carrying the tent bag alone and there was little doubt in his mind that all the local muggles would end up obliviated anyways. His leaving one bag short was hardly going to feature in a list of top strange occurrences of this weekend.

When they were at last packed up and their tent stowed in its carrying bag on Harry’s back, Hermione picked up her own bag and they stopped outside Snape’s tent to let him know they were heading home. Then they made their way along the rows of tents, most of which showed no signs of their owners packing up and leaving any time soon, probably due to portkey regulations which Harry and Hermione, being Londoners, didn’t have to worry about. They might have liked to though, as the talk on everybody’s lips seemed to be the riot last night and Rita Skeeter’s article about it. It was unlikely that the news of the attack on one of the other campsite owners could have missed even the muggle ears of Mr Cameron, the manager of this campsite, flying around among the witches and wizards as wildly as it was.

Outside the caretaker’s cabin, Mr Cameron stood, clipboard in hand, watching over his site. Harry and Hermione approached.

“Checking out?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes, please,” Hermione said, smiling.

“I’ve a form for one o’ yeh to sign,” he said. He turned a few pages on his clipboard. “Granger, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Harry said, impressed with the man’s memory.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the clipboard and a pen at them.

Harry gestured for Hermione to take it and she quickly read over the heading of the chart and the line pertaining to their reservation, then signed her name in tidy script. She passed the pen and clipboard back.

Mr Cameron inspected the signature, then flipped a couple of pages and opened his mouth to say something.

Just then, a man dressed reasonably muggle-like in trousers and a cardigan appeared with a pop around the side of the caretaker’s cabin and hurried over.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m terribly sorry, but could I trouble you to look this way please?” the man said, holding his wand out.

“And why’s that?” Cameron said, not looking up from his paperwork.

“Err, if you could, sir,” the wizard said uneasily.

“I think he’s an Obliviator,” Hermione whispered to Harry.

Harry only nodded in response.

“You don’t got to do that hypnosis thingy to me, lad. I know about keeping secrets.”

“You... you do?” the wizard asked, wavering uncertainly. It was fairly routine for Obliviators to come across a group of muggles, somewhere among which would be a witch or wizard, usually younger than eleven, and their parents or legal guardians, possibly some siblings, and none of those people were supposed to be Obliviated. They all had perfect right to know about magic. The first job of an Obliviator was therefore to sort out the muggles who needed their memories modified from everyone else. And so he floundered.

“Just because I can put the clues together don’t mean you have to mess wiv me head. I get the funny clothes and the joke money and the tents that look small on the outside but can fit ten people inside. I’m not daft, you know. I can tell this is a clown convention, and I can tell its a secret one, what with all the security and the hypnotists like you running around. You can count on me. I won’t tell no one. If you have need of a site for your future conventions, you’re welcome back, of course.” It was all delivered completely emotionlessly, without lifting his head up from the paper he was busying himself with on the clipboard. It was so perfect, it was hard to tell if he was serious.

“Y-y-you know what?!” the Obliviator exclaimed, completely flabbergasted. This clearly made no sense at all to him.

It made no more sense to Harry and Hermione either. Both of them were staring slack-jawed at the campsite manager too.

“Oh!” the Obliviator gasped, dissolving into nervous laughter. “Silly me, silly me. Of course, someone else... yes.. must have got here before me. I’ll just be on my way. You have a nice day, sir.” The Oblivaitor scampered backwards and scurried around the corner of the cabin and out of sight before disapparating with a pop.

At last, Mr Cameron looked up from his paperwork. He had the slightest hint of a smothered smirk as just one corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Well, that’ll be all. Bye then,” he said and turned away to head back to his cabin. Just as he was closing the cabin door behind him, his shoulders started to shake a bit and he shook his head back and forth just slightly, like someone who can’t believe the daft dance with accompanying funny faces they’d just seen a 7-year-old perform.

As Harry and Hermione turned away, Harry had the distinct impression that wizards had just been made the daft children and they’d been outsmarted by Mr Cameron.

“Did that seem quite strange to you?” Hermione whispered as they started down the path past the stadium and towards the portkey site.

“Yeah,” Harry said, smothering a grin. He didn’t think Hermione would see it the same as he did. She’d probably be quite distressed that someone had thwarted Ministry law and would feel obliged to report it. Harry on the other hand, felt that if he was right and Mr Cameron had been performing a clever ruse to avoid Obliviation then he deserved to keep his memories, at least until the next time an Obliviator came around to check in on him.

“I thought so too. What a weird story the Obliviators have cooked up!”

Harry gave her a funny sideways look. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting from her. He’d thought someone as clever as Hermione would have read the signs too. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He suspected there were extensive debates going back hundreds of years on the subject of Muggle Obliviation, but he didn’t really feel like being quoted at from books on the subject so he decided not to reply to that either.

By the time they got a portkey back to the Leaky Cauldron, the strange tale of Mr Cameron and the baffled Obliviator was forgotten. They parted ways at the Charing Cross tube station, Hermione heading home to her parents and Harry back to the Black House.


	14. Fidelius and Family

Harry tiredly climbed the front steps. The Quidditch World Cup had been fun, but it was good to be back. “Black House, you are beautiful... well, actually you look dreary and depressing,” he admitted belatedly, “but that’s okay. You make up for it in other ways.” He took out his wand and opened the door. He and Hermione had caught the 10am portkey back to the Leaky Cauldron. He was so glad to be back. He stepped inside, closed his eyes and breathed in deep the scent of the Black House. He sighed hugely and felt tension wash out of his body.

And then he heard a little sniffle, some rustling, and his eyes snapped open wide. “Who’s there?” he shouted, bringing his wand up. “Kreacher, you know better than to lurk!”

“Kreacher is sorry, Master,” Kreacher said, emerging from the shadows. “Master’s Dobby is visiting.”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir, and Dobby’s friend,” a familiar squeaky voice said.

Harry at last spotted the little green form of Dobby sitting on the second step to the upstairs, his arms around a bundle of pink and white cloth with big ears.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Harry said, still warily clutching his wand.

“Dobby’s friend Winky was having very bad night, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said sadly.

The bundle shivered and Harry heard a strangled sob.

“Winky was being freed by her old Master.”

“She... looks upset,” Harry said. He lowered his wand, but remained cautious. He trusted Dobby to have good intentions, but sometimes his plans were more than a bit screwball.

“Winky is being disgraced!” the bundle wailed, at last raising its head.

Harry saw the elf’s big, puffy eyes and streaming nose and winced. He didn’t handle tears well.

“Winky is needing a job—” Dobby said.

“Winky will not work for wages!” Winky wailed.

“—but will not take Headmaster Dumblydore’s offer for pay at Hogwarts,” Dobby finished. “Dobby is not knowing what to do but to bring Winky to kind Harry Potter, sir.”

“Ah,” Harry said as he caught on to the situation. “You thought I might take Winky on. Kreacher, how would you feel about that?”

“Would Harry Potter sir?” Dobby asked, eyes shining brightly with worshipful hope.

“Kreacher is liking Winky,” Kreacher squawked, sounding unusually strained.

“Are you sure, Kreacher?” Harry pressed.

“Oh yes, Master,” Kreacher assured him emphatically.

Something else was going on here, but Harry wasn’t quite sure what. “Dobby, can you vouch for her?  Is she a trustworthy elf?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes,” Dobby replied, nodding his head furiously. “Winky is keeping all her Master’s secrets and is always obeying orders very well.”

“Then why did she get freed?” Harry asked cautiously.

Winky disappeared into her clothing again, sobbing hard.

“Winky was given a very hard task, very hard, and Winky did a good job for a long, long time, but one mistake was being too many,” Kreacher answered gravely.

Harry considered for a moment. “That’s the absolute truth?”

All three elves nodded.

“And you are sure she’s a good pers— er... elf, in character, I mean. She’s of good character?”

Dobby nodded fervently. “Dobby is very certain.”

“And Winky is not being mad like Master’s Dobby,” Kreacher added.

Harry worried his lower lip tensely. He didn’t know this elf and that bothered him, but Dobby thought she was okay and Kreacher seemed to like her as well and if he did become her Master, he’d have some level of control over her and she’d be here to help Kreacher maintain the house and keep him company whenever Harry was away. “Can I trust her Dobby?” he asked.

Dobby nodded solemnly this time. “Dobby is believing so, Harry Potter.”

“Alright. What do I have to do?” Harry finally agreed.

Winky’s head snapped up and she gasped. Dobby grinned broadly

“Sir is meaning it?” Winky asked, her voice fragile with desperate hope. “Sir is wanting disgraced elf like Winky?”

“Yes, Winky. I’m willing to take you on Dobby’s recommendation. But you’d better live up to it,” Harry said.

“Oh, Winky will!” Winky wailed and leapt from the stairs to hug Harry’s legs fiercely. Harry was about to order her off him when she jumped back on her own accord and began tearing her clothes off.

Extremely embarrassed, Harry hastily turned his back. “Woah!  Why’s she doing that?”

“Harry Potter must present Winky with a uniform,” Dobby explained him. “Harry Potter is wanting Dobby to get a pillowcase?”

“Please,” Harry said, with some relief that he wouldn’t have to turn around until the elf was no longer naked.

Dobby disappeared and returned quickly, handing Harry a pillowcase which Harry hastily thrust behind his back. “Here, Winky. Put this on.”

There was some shuffling and some sniffling, a sharp sound of tearing, then Winky appeared at his side in uniform. “Oh thank you, Master Potter, sir. Winky is so grateful to be getting a second chance.”

“Dobby is being very grateful, too, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby told him. “But Dobby is being missed at Hogwarts if Dobby is not returning soon.”

Harry nodded. “I’m happy to help, Dobby. I’ll leave you and Winky to say your goodbyes. Winky, I’ll be in my room unpacking my bag. Once Dobby’s gone, I’ll need help cleaning out the tent. Kreacher, please arrange whatever Winky will need now that she’s living here.” He took the tent bag off his back and set it on the ground, then climbed the stairs to his bedroom where he began unpacking his things.

Several minutes later, he suddenly realized something was missing. “Wait a minute!  Where is it?” Harry exclaimed out loud. He’d reached the bottom of his bag without finding the gold he’d thrown in there from his winning bet. He frantically searched the pile of dirty clothing, but it wasn’t there. And then a shower of gold coins on the field came to his mind’s eye and he scowled severely.

“Bagman!” Harry growled angrily. “That sleazy bastard paid me in Leprechaun gold!”

*****

A bell rang. Harry looked up from his letter writing. “Winky, that’s the front door. It should be Hermione. Could you let her in please?”

Harry was in the process of writing a letter to Bagman saying he wasn’t amused by the leprechaun gold and expected to be paid his fifty galleons. When he was finished and had sealed the letter, he sent Hedwig to deliver it.

She was just leaving when Hermione came thundering down the stairs angrily. “Harry, you didn’t tell me you’d enslaved a fellow sentient creature,” she said dangerously.

Harry sighed. As genially as he could, he said, “Hermione, this is Winky.”

“Yes, she said,” Hermione interrupted coldly.

“Winky was waiting for me when I got back from the World Cup. Dobby was with her and she was very upset. Dobby told me she’d been set an impossible task by her former master and when she failed, she was freed. Winky was devastated. Dobby got her a job offer with wages from Hogwarts but she wouldn’t accept it. She wanted a family, Hermione, and Dobby recommended her to me so he obviously approved of her choice,” Harry said.

“So you enslaved her?” Hermione challenged angrily. “Wasn’t it bad enough you already had Kreacher?”

“It’s what she wanted. She was quite adamant,” Harry said, grimacing at the memory.

“You’re not like this. You’re not some spoiled pureblood heir!  You know right from wrong!” Hermione said, bitterly disappointed.

“Just one second, Hermione!” Harry protested, trying to keep calm and rational. “If you want to talk about house elf rights, you talk about house elf rights. Don’t insult me.”

Hermione huffed. “I wasn’t!”

“If Miss Hermione and Master Harry can excuse Winky!” Winky interjected. “Winky is happy as Master Harry’s house elf!  Winky does not want to be free!”

“Oh, Winky,” Hermione murmured pityingly. “You poor elf. You’ve been brainwashed.”

Kreacher turned around from where he’d been at work at the sink and pinned Hermione with a nasty glare.

“Hermione, either house elves are intelligent beings or they aren’t. If they are, as you and I both believe, then they can think for themselves and tell you what they want,” Harry snapped.

Hermione gasped and fell back like she’d been slapped. “A-a-a-alright. I...” she stuttered, falling into a seat at the table.

“Hermione, I know you had good intentions,” Harry said soothingly. “But Kreacher says Dobby’s mad as a hatter by house elf standards so I don’t think we can really decide for all elves based on what Dobby wants.”

Winky said, nodding emphatically, “Is just that house elves is wanting to belong to a family. House elves is just wanting masters to be fair. House elves is mostly not wanting to be free.”

Hermione looked from Winky to Kreacher, her lips pursed in thought. “I guess I didn’t really understand. I... I still don’t, really. Can you tell me what its like to be a house elf?”

“Winky is not telling old Master’s secrets,” Winky warned, “but Winky is talking to Miss Hermione if Miss Hermione is wanting.”

Hermione nodded, smiling a bit wider now, and got up to take over the cutting of potatoes into chips from Winky.

When it seemed that the row over house elf servitude was over, Harry packed up his stationary set and put it away. When Hedwig got back, not much later since Bagman had been a work at Ministry Headquarters just a few minutes away as the bird flies, Harry re-sent the letter to Lupin that had been returned unopened earlier.

In the coming days, neither letter received a reply but nor were they returned.

*****

With just three days left until term, Harry finally managed to secure himself another step towards fulfilling his goal of self-reliance and protecting those he cared about when he put the Black House under the Fidelius Charm with himself as Secret Keeper. It created a lot of inconvenience that he now had to sort out but he had been worried about Dumbledore. He fully expected the Headmaster to demand some measure of control over his summer movements and to be involved in the security arrangements surrounding them. With the Fidelius on, he could more readily refuse, and he planned to. Now he could say “If you can find my house, then we’ll talk about security improvements and if you can’t, then clearly they aren’t necessary.” It sounded perfectly reasonable to him and he hoped that would work. He could not let himself get into a situation where Dumbledore controlled his security, who could come and go, where he could be and when he could leave. It was still burned into his brain, the memory of learning from Snape what Dumbledore had known all that time, how Dumbledore had pulled the strings on his life methodically for years so he would willingly sacrifice his own life, never mind that Dumbledore couldn’t even find the courage in the end, that year when he’d known he was dying, to tell Harry that himself.

“Oh Master Harry, Master Harry!” the frantic voice called from below.

Harry heard Winky’s frightened wails from his seat on the floor in the corridor of the second level – as near to the center of the house as he could manage and therefore the best place to cast the Fidelius Charm. “What’s wrong?” he called.

“Winky is scared, Master Harry!  Winky is being nowhere!  Where is Winky?” she cried.

“Shite,” Harry cursed. “You’re in the Black House which is located at Number 12 Grimmauld Place!” he shouted as he got up off the floor and ran to find her. He found her and Kreacher just picking themselves up off the floor where they’d been cleaning the floor in the entrance hall.

“Oh, Master Harry,” Winky wailed tearily, hugging her knobby knees and breathing heavily. “Winky is being back now.”

Kreacher looked the worse for wear too, grumbling to himself and pulling himself to his feet.

“I’m sorry, Winky. I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize it would be like that for you,” Harry said, getting upset with himself for hurting her.

“Winky is being alright now,” Winky said, but she still looked badly scared.

“Why don’t you take a break, both of you. Get some rest and look after yourselves. The floors can definitely wait until tomorrow.”

“Master Harry is being sure?” Winky asked hopefully, still shaking like a leaf from her fright.

“Yes. I need to go and ring Hermione. I’ll be back soon. I’m really sorry. Just, take it easy this afternoon, please.”

Harry waited until Winky had picked herself up, banished the mop and bucket, and she and Kreacher headed towards the basement before he left the house and walked to the nearest phone box.

He inserted a coin and dialed Hermione’s number. He waited while it rang.

“Hello?” It was Mr Granger’s voice.

“Hi, Mr Granger,” Harry said. “It’s me, Harry Potter.”

“Hi, Harry. What can we do for you today?”

“I think I might have mentioned before that I was looking into improving the magical security on the Black House?  Well I’ve done that and now I personally have to tell you and Mrs Granger and Hermione where it is so you’ll be able to find it.”

“Alright.” Mr Granger asked.

“The Black House is located at Number 12 Grimmauld Place,” Harry said.

“Ah, yes. I remember now. Funny how I forgot,” Mr Granger said, not at all concerned that he’d had a missing memory. If anything, he seemed simply to believe that this was run-of-the-mill strangeness for magic.

“Yeah, that’s how this spell works. Can I talk to Hermione or Mrs Granger now?” Harry said.

“Sure. Here’s my wife and I’ll go and call Hermione down from her room,” he said and then the sound of the phone being passed on could be heard.

“Mr Potter?”

“Hi, Mrs Granger. I just had to tell you that the Black House is located at 12 Grimmauld Place.”

“Will we be able to see it now?” she asked, curious.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said apologetically. “The anti-muggle spells are still working. This just makes it so you know where to go again.”

“Oh, well I’m to pass you on to Hermione, right?  Here she is.”

“Harry?  What’s going on?” Hermione asked.

“The Black House is located at Number 12 Grimmauld Place,” Harry said.

“But—” she began. “Oh yes, but wait. Does that mean you hired someone to put the Fidelius Charm on your house?”

“Well, you know how it is,” Harry said evasively.

“How what is?” Hermione asked, confused.

“With Dumbledore saying that Lord, er, You Know Who might come back soon,” Harry managed, though he almost choked on his tongue nearly saying Voldemort’s name out loud. It rattled him that he didn’t know why. Something about this neighborhood just made it worse.

“Since when do you call Voldemort, You-Know-Who?” Hermione asked, surprised.

Harry swallowed hard. She’d said it. He’d definitely developed the aversion to You-Know-Who’s name that most British wizards shared. “Er,” he began, but even he didn’t know the answer to that

“Is it because he’s coming back now?  I mean, its easy to be brave when you think he’s gone, but after what happened at the World Cup and with the theft from Hogwarts... I guess its different now.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, relieved to have been given an out.

“Anyway,” Hermione continued dismissively, “my parents want me to spend some time with them before we go back to school so I won’t be visiting as much this week. I’ll be by while they’re at work the day after tomorrow and maybe once more before the week is out and we’ll come and pick you up and take you to the station on the first, okay?”

“I can probably walk,” Harry protested.

“No. We’ll come with the car,” Hermione insisted. “See you soon, okay. Bye, Harry.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye, Hermione.” Harry hung up after her.

He left the phone box and walked back to Grimmauld Place. There were still a few people he wanted to let in on the Secret of his house but they were all best reached over the Floo.

The first call he placed was to Madam Pomfrey. He knew she would want to be kept in the loop about his living situation and of all the adult witches and wizards he knew, she was among the nicest to him.

He lit the fire with a quick Incendio, tossed some powder in and spoke the Floo address Madam Pomfrey had given him clearly and then stuck his head into the green fire. His head spun sickeningly through the fire and he remembered belatedly that when placing a Floo call, it was best to wait a second for the connection to be made before sticking your head in. When the spinning finally stopped, he took a moment to recover and then opened his eyes onto an empty sitting room.

“Madam Pomfrey?” he called. “Are you home?”

“Just a minute,” a voice called from the next room. It was followed by the sound of two chairs scraping on the floor, then Madam Pomfrey came into the room. Harry was surprised to see her dressed in trousers — he’d only ever seen her in her nurses uniform or robes before but at the moment, she seemed to be just relaxing at home. But her demeanor changed from casual to concerned when she saw him.

“Mr Potter,” she gasped when she saw him. She turned around and called, “Minnie, Harry’s in the Floo.”

Professor McGonagall came in from the next room, her long hair down and fuzzy slippers on her feet. “Harry, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, confused by their concern. “Why?  What’s happened?”

“What have you been up to that your address suddenly disappeared from your medical file?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“I, err, had the Fidelius Charm put on the Black House,” Harry said. “Has something happened?” Harry asked again, getting more worried.

Both women got strange, almost disappointed, looks on their faces.

“No, Mr Potter. Nothing’s happened, except that suddenly you appeared to have no address,” Professor McGonagall said, kind but firm.

“I just wanted to improve the security on the house,” Harry said, not understanding the fuss.

“Why didn’t you warn us?  We were worried, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey, genuinely upset.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said sheepishly. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Harry — sorry, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall began. She was always one for politeness and propriety so she corrected herself.

“You can call me Harry, if you want,” Harry said. He still didn’t understand what the problem was.

Professor McGonagall smiled at him, “Just outside of school,” she warned. Then continued. “Harry, you have to know that Poppy and I worry about you.”

“You do?” Harry asked, truly surprised. Then he corrected himself, feeling foolish. “Well, I mean, I know I’m your student and your patient, and I’m the bloody Boy Who Lived—”

“Language, Mr Potter!” McGonagall scolded sharply.

“That’s not it, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey interrupted. “Look, can you come through?”

“Why?” Harry asked, puzzled by the request.

“Because I care and I was worried and I want to hug you, okay?” Madam Pomfrey said genuinely.

Harry was taken aback. He didn’t know what to say.

“Please?” she asked quietly.

Harry, without really consciously deciding to do it, stepped the rest of the way through the Floo.

He stepped out of the fire and stood there for an awkward moment before Madam Pomfrey wrapped him in a warm hug. Professor McGonagall too put an arm around his shoulders. He accepted the gestures awkwardly, hoping he was doing it right. He didn’t often get hugged, and when he did, it was usually from Mrs Weasley who didn’t seem to care if he returned it or not, not if her habit of doing it while his hands were full with luggage was anything to go by.

Professor McGonagall spoke then, pulling Harry out of his anxieties. “We were scared, Harry. With you all alone and suddenly Poppy’s file not knowing where you are. You could have been dead, or kidnapped, or lost.”

“I tried fire-calling you but your flue was closed again,” Poppy said, though her voice was muffled by Harry’s hair.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t called you?” Harry asked.

“We hoped you would call us,” Professor McGonagall said. “But we sent you an owl asking you to get in touch anyway.”

“You wouldn’t have looked for me?  Or told Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asked. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to know these things, but he felt strangely that he had to ask.

“If you hadn’t contacted us in 24 hours, we would have spoken to your guardians and contacted the Grangers,” Madam Pomfrey said, but Harry could hear in her tone that that wasn’t the whole story. “If no one knew where you were, we would have reported you missing with the aurors.”

“Harry, we don’t have to tell Albus anything. He’s just your headmaster,” Professor McGonagall said, though she seemed confused by his concern for privacy.

“He’s your boss,” Harry said nervously.

“We both have tenure, Harry, and have since before your parents were born,” Madam Pomfrey said, comfortingly.

Professor McGonagall smacked her playfully on the shoulder. “Poppy, you make us sound so old.”

Harry laughed. Professor McGonagall smiled at Harry’s happiness and pulled him close. He relaxed into the touch and sighed. “Thanks, Madam Pomfrey, Professor.”

“I think outside of school, you can call us by our first names, Harry,” Poppy said.

Harry looked to strict Professor McGonagall uncertainly. She hesitated, but then nodded. “You can call me Minnie, but only between the three of us, do you understand?” she said sternly.

Harry nodded. “Yes, Minnie,” he said, grinning broadly. “Anyway, I came to tell you the Secret. The Black House is located at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.”

“We’re glad you’re alright, Harry,” Minnie said.

“You are okay, aren’t you?” Poppy asked concernedly. “I’ve spoken with Professor Snape. You had us worried even before today.”

Harry sucked in a breath. “I guess he had to tell you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. You have our Floo address and I want you to use it if you need anything, Harry. Once school starts again, Severus and I will have to sit down with you and figure out what difficulties you’re having and then we’ll come up with a plan to help you.”

“Okay,” Harry whispered, apprehensive and embarrassed to need this special care.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Harry. You’ve been through something most people can’t even imagine. We’re here to support you.”

Harry just stood there speechless, a little overwhelmed by all this unfamiliar kindness and caring focused on him as a person. “I should get back,” he said at last.

“Of course,” Poppy said, smiling gently at him, motioning towards the fireplace.

Minnie let go of Harry and took a decorative box from the mantel. She opened it and took out a pinch of glittering green powder. “Ready?”

Harry nodded and she threw it into the fire.

“Bye,” Harry said, finally returning their smiles.

“Bye,” they said together.

Harry stepped into the green flames and said, “Black House,” then spun away through the Floo network to emerge back in his kitchen. He went to his own Floo pot and took another pinch of powder, tossed it into his fire, and waited a second for the flames to turn green.

“The Burrow,” he called, but immediately, he got the system message that their flue was closed.

He withdrew his head from the fire and sighed. Well, Ron had said they were going to be really busy. Harry just wished he could have seen more of the Weasleys this summer.

So he had to tell Dobby and the Weasleys still but he figured there was no rush. With just a few days left until term, he’d see them soon enough. When Harry went to bed that night, he was feeling safer than he had in a long time.

That night, he dreamt he was floating on clouds. It was warm and peaceful and he was happy. But slowly, that began to change. The clouds rose and enveloped him and inside, they were cold and thick. And then he heard voices. He spun wildly, not knowing where they were coming from, who was out there, or how close they might be to him. He fought to move through the thick mists that grabbed at him and dragged on his body. The effort was exhausting and instead of moving away from the voices, he found himself suddenly close enough to understand what they were saying.

“I don’t know what to say, James.” That was his godfather’s voice! 

“Sirius?” Harry called.

“Don’t look at me. This isn’t my fault!” That was his mother.

“Mum!  You’re alright,” Harry said, relieved. He tried to push through the thick mists and just for a moment, he thought he glimpsed four figures standing together.

“I thought he was a Gryffindor. He should have been brave.” His father had said that.

“He’s just a child. I don’t fault him for running away. It’s what he did to you, Lily, that worries me. No decent human being could see you being tortured, know how to stop it, and do nothing.” Remus. Remus had said that.

“I had to, Remus!  It was a horcrux!  It was Voldemort’s last horcrux!” Harry pleaded. He fought the mist, desperately trying to find them.

“There is that,” his father said. “Lily died so he could live and this is how he repays her?  With cowardice and greed?”

“I want nothing to do with him,” his mother said.

“No!  Please, Mum. I didn’t mean it!” Harry shouted.

“Of course you don’t,” his father said, but his voice was farther away this time. “Completely understandable.”

“We’re all done with him, Lily,” his godfather said distantly. They were walking away. “Let’s not think of him anymore.”

“No!  No!  No!  No!” Harry sobbed, but it was no use. They couldn’t hear him and they were just getting further away. “Please,” he begged piteously.

Suddenly, the white mists vanished, replaced by pitch blackness. Harry had a fraction of a second to panic before he realized he’d woken from a dream. Tears were rolling down Harry’s cheeks. His heart ached and he was overwhelmed by desperation and despair. They’d renounced him: his own parents, his godfather, Remus.

“It was just a dream!” he tried to tell himself. Remus wasn’t dead. It couldn’t have been the afterlife. It couldn’t have been real.

But logic didn’t help the pain.

He had to know. Harry threw off the covers and found the ring. He had to talk to them. He had to explain. He held the Resurrection Stone so hard that his knuckles were white.

But no one came.

A small sob escaped him and he grabbed his wand.

“Please be broken,” he begged, then he cast the spell to reveal its spell matrix. The familiar blue-green light flowed form his wand and enveloped the ring. It seemed for a moment to settle into the Stone and Harry’s heart soared. If it really was broken, that was why his parents hadn’t come when he’d held it. But then the magic exploded outwards in waves of light like nothing he’d ever seen before. This tiny stone held an incredible sort of magic. He recognized no runes and no numbers but even more alien than that, this didn’t look like a matrix. It had no solid structure. It was almost organic in form, made up of branching parts that didn’t even seem to be connected and yet magic fluttered between them anyways in glittering pulses. It was beautiful and it hurt. There was nothing obviously wrong with it, though with something so bizarre, he could not be certain that anything was right with it either. He was no better off than when he’d begun.

Harry canceled the spell and thrust the ring back into the very back of his wardrobe. He didn’t want to see it anymore. He fell heavily onto his bed and held his head in his hands. But abruptly, he rose again. He couldn’t sit alone with his own thoughts right now. He walked down the corridor to the bathroom and washed his face, then stumbled down the stairs in the dark and grabbed some Dreamless Sleep from the potions cupboard. Just what he needed: not to think about or feel anything for hours. He gulped down a dose and went back to bed.


	15. Return to Hogwarts

“Do you see the Weasleys anywhere?” Harry asked, craning his head to search the crowd of witches and wizards, familiars, luggage, and luggage trolleys crowding Platform 9 and 3/4. It had only been a few days since his nightmare of his parents and godfather and he had dealt with it by not dealing with it. He’d busied himself preparing the house and the house elves for his departure, packing his belongings, and doing a bit of preparatory reading of his textbooks. And now, he was relieved to finally be going back to Hogwarts where he would have all sorts of people and activities and assignments to keep him busy.

“No. They do tend to run late though,” Hermione pointed out as she too searched the crowd.

“Well, let’s give them until the whistle,” Harry said, setting Hedwig’s cage down on top of his trunk.

“Oh, there’s Parvati and Padma over—” Hermione began, only to realize that Harry wasn’t listening to her at all.

Luna Lovegood was walking alone down the platform, dragging her trunk behind her. Harry waved at her, smiling. She stared at him, almost examining him like a curious specimen. Then she seemed to come to some conclusion and came over.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” she said.

“Hi, Luna,” Harry replied, smiling broadly. “How was your summer?”

Hermione huffed and sat down on her trunk, arms crossed in front of her chest. Harry sent her one brief, worried glance before focusing a smile back on Luna.

“It was nice. Father and I went camping for two weeks and then saw the Quidditch World Cup,” she said.

“You weren’t caught in the riot, were you?” Harry asked worriedly.

“Oh, no. Father and I left right after the game. It was just the two of us so he could Side-Along Apparate with me. It just wasn’t as much fun camping anymore once all the people were there. The Wrackspurts started swarming and the Blibbering Humdingers were all scared off.”

Hermione scoffed. “There’s no such thing as any of those!”

“Hermione, that’s what muggles say about wizards,” Harry said dismissively. Maybe these particular creatures Luna believed in weren’t actually real but with all that he’d been through, he could hardly dismiss something just because he’d never heard of it before. “Besides, some creatures just can’t be seen by the naked eye, or by everyone. Like thestrals.”

“Not you too, Harry!” Hermione groaned.

“What?” Harry asked, turning to pin her with a genuinely confused expression.

“Alright, let’s have it. What’s a ‘thestral’, then?” Hermione demanded, her tone heavy with disbelief.

“A carrion horse. Like unicorns, they live in magical forests. They can find anyone, anywhere and only people who’ve seen someone die can see a thestral; they’re just invisible to everyone else. Two of them pull each of the carriages that take us from the station in Hogsmeade up to the castle,” Harry rattled off the information.

“Really?” Hermione asked, wondering with the lingering suspicion of a girl who’d been too smart for her peers in primary school if Harry was just making things up to fool her. She didn’t really think Harry would, except that boys got weird around girls they liked and Hermione feared that perhaps he would if he thought it would please Lovegood. “Where did you learn all that then?”

Harry faltered. Where had he learned it all?  “I must have picked it up in a book somewhere. Divination, maybe. You know how Trelawney is with death omens.”

“Fine,” Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes. “I accept thestrals, but I reserve judgment on Blibbering whatevers and Wreckspurts.”

Luna smiled serenely and said nothing.

The train’s whistle sounded then and all around them, students said their goodbyes and excitedly boarded the Hogwarts Express.

“I guess the Weasleys will just have to find us when they get here,” Harry said, shrugging. “Let’s get a compartment. Would you like to lead the way, Luna?”

Luna smiled and picked up her trunk. “Okay,” she said dreamily.

Harry smiled back and picked up Hedwig’s cage and took the handle of his trunk, ready to follow. “Hermione?”

Hermione looked unhappy as she stood stiffly and collected her belongings.

But soon into the train ride, Hermione relaxed and they all talked and laughed and worked on a difficult rune puzzle in Luna’s copy of the Quibbler. The rain grew heavier as the train rode on. By the time the food cart came around, the wind and rain were really buffeting the train windows hard. Harry treated the compartment to a pile of sweets and cakes off the cart.

“Do you think the Weasleys missed the train?” Hermione asked him as they polished off the sweets. “I thought they’d have found us by now.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe we should go look for them.”

But then the door to their compartment opened. All eyes turned to look.

“Finally!  We searched practically the whole train for you, mate!” Ron exclaimed. He was followed closely by his sister Ginny. They each claimed one of the empty seats.

“We didn’t see you on the platform so we just had to get a compartment,” Hermione explained.

“Yeah, we were late,” Ginny said.

“Almost missed the train!” Ron laughed.

“Dad got an urgent call from the Ministry this morning and had to go in. Left Mum in a bit of a pickle about getting everyone here. She’s not very good with muggles and the taxi drivers weren’t very patient,” Ginny explained.

“Mr Weasley’s not in trouble, is he?  I mean, we saw the newspaper article...” Hermione said, worried.

“Nah, that was fine. He had to smooth over something with this ex-auror with cursed dustbins. I guess they’d gone after some muggles or something. ‘Mad Eye Moody’, he’s called. Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of him,” Ron said.

"Harry, we missed you this summer," Ginny said, smiling.

"Yeah, I missed you guys too.  I thought we were going to do something together after the Cup, but I couldn't get you on the Floo."

Ron shrugged. "Well the gang's back together now," he flopped into the seat beside Harry and grinned.

“So did it happen like the article said — the riot at the World Cup, I mean?” Hermione wanted badly to know.

“It was a little hairy at times,” Ron said, leaning forward in his seat. “These Death Eaters were torturing the muggle campsite manager and his family and parading them around the camp and people were running everywhere. Bill and Charlie came and woke us up and sent us into the woods so we don’t really know what happened. We wandered for awhile and then we saw the Dark Mark overhead. Eventually, these aurors that were searching the forest found us and sent us back to the campsite around dawn.”

“It really upset Mum,” Ginny added. “She lost her brothers in the war, you know. Seeing the Dark Mark again brought it all back, I think.”

“The _Daily Prophet_ said Malfoy cast the Dark Mark,” Hermione pressed, hungry for the specific details.

“I’m sure he’d want people to think it was him, but Dad says it wasn’t him, just his wand that was used,” Ron said, smugly proud that his father could deprive Draco Malfoy of something he might want.

For the rest of the train ride, they discussed the World Cup at length. Outside, the storm raged on.

“Oh my!” Hermione exclaimed, looking out the window at the billowing sheets of rain pounding the train and the platform as they pulled into Hogsmeade Station. “The poor first years!  It’s going to be a horrible trip across the lake,” she said.

Luna’s mind seemed to be elsewhere as she donned her hat and cloak and wandered out into the corridor without so much as a backward glance. A few steps behind her, they all headed out into the torrential downpour.

Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny ran towards the queue of carriages and jumped into the first free one.

“Thank Merlin,” Ginny gasped, settling into the carriage. She took off her hat and tipped a pool of water from the brim out the carriage door before putting it back on her head. Ron closed the door against the driving wind and rain.

“This is just awful,” Hermione moaned, looking out the window as their carriage, rocking sharply in the violent winds, climbed the hill towards the castle. The carriage turned as it passed through the school gates and Harry could just see through the curtains of rain pummeling the carriage windows, the warm glow of the castle windows. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled as their carriage joined the queue outside the castle. The students who’d been in the first few carriages were already running up the stone steps and into the castle. At last, their carriage pulled up and they all leapt out and hurried inside.

“Blimey!” Ron gasped. He removed his hat, sending water cascading onto the Entrance Hall floor, then shook himself, like a dog coming out of the rain, and water flew off him everywhere. “If that keeps up, the lake will overflow!  I’m soak— ARRGH!”

A large, red water balloon had dropped from the ceiling onto Ron’s head and exploded, drenching Ron who staggered into Harry just as a second balloon dropped, nearly hitting Hermione. High above them, Peeves cackled.

Professor McGonagall came marching out of the Great Hall to deal with it.

“Come on,” Harry hissed, prodding Hermione and Ginny towards the safety of the Great Hall.

The four of them scurried, ducking another balloon, through the grand doors and into the Great Hall. The ceiling above rippled and rolled with turbulent storm clouds and a bolt of lightening shot out across it as they made their way towards the Gryffindor table.

“I don’t envy the Slytherins tonight,” Hermione said quietly as they passed the first table.

“You don’t envy the slimy snakes, ever,” Ginny interjected.

“I just meant that it must be cold and damp down there on a day like today. I expect Snape and the house elves will have their Common Room and dormitory well warmed up by the end of the Feast, but its still a long walk through the drafty corridors,” Hermione explained.

Beside her, Ron was muttering furiously about Peeves and squelching lightly with each step.

They passed the Hufflepuff table and at last joined their housemates. Ron chose some seats near Nearly Headless Nick and sat down backwards on the bench to empty his shoes of water. Ginny excused herself to join her friends further along the Gryffindor table and Harry and Hermione took seats beside Neville who was then talking animatedly with an upper year Gryffindor about the expected state of the Screechsnap plants Professor Sprout had started in the spring.

“Arefacio!” Hermione cast repeatedly. Beside her, Harry was using the same Drying Charm on himself.

When they’d finished and Ron had put his shoes back on and turned around in his seat, Harry looked past everyone, up to the Staff Table where an unusually high number of seats remained empty. Hagrid would still be on the lake at this point with the poor first years. Professor McGonagall was probably still in the Entrance Hall dealing with Peeves, and likely Filch was there as well, supervising the drying of the place after Peeves’ balloons and hundreds of rain-drenched students had been through. But another seat, at the far end of the staff table, ought to have held a new face — the Defense teacher. Only it was empty.

“I wonder if they couldn’t get anyone,” Harry muttered.

“What?” Hermione asked confusedly, but turning to scan the staff table as he was, she quickly caught up and added, “Oh, yes, I see. Maybe the storm has delayed them. Defense Against the Dark Arts is a cornerstone of our educational program here at Hogwarts. Surely they wouldn’t start school with no professor.”

Harry scoffed. “Cornerstone of our educational program?” he repeated skeptically. “Not with Quirrell and Lockhart as our professors?  They’d better have got someone good this year.”

“Come on!  Hurry up already — I’m starving!” Ron moaned beside them.

No sooner had Ron said those words then Hagrid slipped in, noticeably without his shaggy moleskin coat, and took his seat at the staff table beside Madam Hooch.

“It shouldn’t be long now,” Hermione said encouragingly.

And it seemed that Professor McGonagall didn’t want to keep the first years from the warm Hall for long. She must have rushed through her introductory speech and hurried them all along because scarcely a minute after Hagrid took his seat, the doors to the Great Hall banged open and McGonagall entered leading a long line of very small first years, all shivering from the cold and the wet and the excitement. They all looked like they’d swum across the lake and one in particular seemed to be indicating that he had. He was wearing Hagrid’s coat which, being made for a half-giant, made him look rather like a talking head perched on a mound of damp, wrinkled fur. He apparently knew someone at the Gryffindor table. Harry looked further down the table and saw that it was Colin Creevey which, Harry reflected, made a certain kind of sense in the situation.

Professor McGonagall crossed in between Harry and the painfully excited swimmer and placed the familiar three-legged stool on the ground in front of the first years and on top of it went the Sorting Hat. She stepped back and everyone watched the Sorting Hat, waiting. Then, the tear in its brim opened up and it sang.

> …And now the Sorting Hat is here
> 
> and you all know the score:
> 
> I sort you into Houses
> 
> because that is what I'm for.
> 
> But this year I'll go further,
> 
> listen closely to my song:
> 
> though condemned I am to split you
> 
> still I worry that it's wrong,
> 
> though I must fulfill my duty
> 
> and must quarter every year
> 
> still I wonder whether sorting
> 
> may not bring the end I fear.
> 
> Oh, know the perils, read the signs,
> 
> the warning history shows,
> 
> for our Hogwarts is in danger
> 
> from external, deadly foes
> 
> and we must unite inside her
> 
> or we'll crumble from within
> 
> I have told you, I have warned you...
> 
> let the Sorting now begin.

Professor McGonagall unrolled her scroll. “Ackerley, Stewart.”

A short boy with brown hair stepped out of the line of first years and scurried to take a seat on the stool and dropped the Sorting Hat onto his head. After just a moment, it shouted, “RAVENCLAW!” and the Ravenclaw table applauded loudly.

“Creevey, Dennis,” brother of Colin, became the first new Gryffindor of the year.

Slowly, each of the first years was Sorted, ending at last with “Whitby, Kevin,” joining the Hufflepuff table.

Professor McGonagall rolled up the scroll, collected the Hat and the stool, and disappeared through a side door as Professor Dumbledore stood to address the assembled students.

“I won’t keep you all from your meals any longer, but I can promise some wonderful news after we’re all fed and watered,” he said. Then he waved his hand and the feast appeared.

Immediately, the Great Hall erupted with the noise of talking and plates and silverware as everyone dug in to the food.

“Finally,” Ron moaned happily as he poured himself some pumpkin juice with one hand and grabbed a bread roll with the other.

“What do you think the Hat meant?” Hermione asked Harry, Ron, and Nearly Headless Nick who had just floated up behind them.

“Huh?” Ron asked, helping himself to some more fish and then some potatoes.

“The song, of course,” Hermione said. “Weren’t you listening?  It didn’t just explain the houses this time, it was practically begging us to work together.”

“Strange,” Harry muttered. He wondered if it had something to do with what the Hat had seen in his head.

“The Sorting Hat feels itself honor-bound to warn us all when it detects great danger for our school,” Nearly-Headless Nick said. “I’ve heard it happen several times before and the advice is always the same: ‘Stand together, be strong from within.’ I do wonder what it knows that we don’t though. As far as I can tell, things seem to be going well,” Nick said, sounding concerned.

“How does the Sorting Hat learn about coming dangers?” Harry asked, hoping he sounded merely curious. “I mean, it mostly sits in the Headmaster’s office, doesn’t it?”

“The office of Headmaster of Hogwarts is an important one. I suppose it may overhear political news, news from the outside world, and recognize the patterns. And of course, it sees inside the heads of our newest students every year,” Nick said, though he didn’t seem as curious about it as Harry, and now Hermione. He smiled at them and then resumed floating down the length of the Gryffindor table, making rounds with the students he knew well and introducing himself to the first years.

“That was quite a clever question,” Hermione commented.

“Watch yourself, mate,” Ron warned, eyeballing Hermione mock-fearfully, “you’re moving in on Hermione’s territory. She might get jealous.” He laughed and Harry grinned.

“Better mine than yours, Ronald,” Hermione ribbed.

Back behind the High Table, a side door opened. Harry, Hermione and Ron were among the students who noticed as Professor McGonagall returned and took her seat beside Snape. Several minutes later, a grizzled man with a pegleg and a magical eye came through the door, leaning on his staff as he walked towards the last empty seat at the staff table.

“Who is that?  Do you think he’s the new Defense Professor?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, that’s Mad Eye Moody,” Ron said. “He’s the ex-auror Dad helped out, remember. Said he’d be teaching at at Hogwarts, actually. Forgot about that.”

Harry tried to recall anything about Moody. The only thing he could come up with was the image of a photograph and snatches of a conversation.

_“You alright, Potter?”_

_“Yeah, fine,” Harry lied, truly upset about something._

_“Come here, I’ve got something that might interest you: Original Order of the Phoenix. Thought people might like to see it. There’s me. And there’s Dumbledore beside me, Dedalus Diggle on the other side... That’s Marlene MicKinnon, she was killed two weeks after this was taken, they got her whole family. That’s Frank and Alice Longbottom – poor devils. Better dead than what happened to them... and that’s Emmeline Vance, you’ve met her, and that there’s Lupin, obviously.. Benjy Fenwick, he copped it too, we only ever found bits of him... That’s Edgar Bones... brother of Amelia Bones, they got him and his family too... Sturgis Podmore, blimey he looks young... Caradoc Dearborn, vanished six months after this, we never found his body... Hagrid of course... Gideon Prewett, it took five Death Eaters to kill him and his brother Fabian, they fought like heroes... There’s Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth... That’s Dorcas Meadowes, Voldemort killed her personally... Sirius... and... there you go, thought that would interest you!” His mother and father... and Wormtail._

Harry shook his head to clear it. Some thing for a bloke who knew he was feeling down to do. So he was an Order member. Harry wondered idly if Moody might be able to help him find a way to destroy Voldemort... except Dumbledore hand-picked Order members, didn’t he?  Would Moody be too loyal to Dumbledore?  Was he here to keep an eye on Harry or to guard against whatever Voldemort might have planned this year? 

 _I’ll have to watch him_ , Harry thought as the dessert course appeared. _See what he’s like in class and decide if I should ask him or not._

“Pass the treacle tarts?” Hermione asked, distracting Harry.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts and paid attention to his friends until at last everyone had finished stuffing themselves and the tables were magically cleared, then Dumbledore stood to address the school at length.

“So,” he said, beaming down at them from the High Table, “now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.”

The usual extensions to Filch’s list of banned items and the reminder that the Forbidden Forest was off limits followed. Dumbledore introduced Professor Moody and then he informed the rest of the school of what the Minsiter had already told Harry: that the Triwizard Tournament would be played at Hogwarts this year.

“You’re joking!” exclaimed Fred Weasley as the hall burst in to enthusiastic applause and excited chatter.

Unfortunately, he also announced that the Quidditch season would be canceled with rather tempered the enthusiasm of some. Hermione was alarmed by the talk of a death toll, but she was in the minority and Ron and the twins shushed her when she tried to say something against it as Dumbledore continued, explaining the history of unsuccessful attempts to reinstate the tournament, promising them all that no champion would be in true mortal danger (to which Harry scoffed, knowing full well that where he was concerned, such promises never seemed to hold), and explaining that the prize for the champion would be, “the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

“I’m going for it!” Fred said from down the table. Many other students clearly had the same idea. But then Dumbledore spoke again.

“I know many of you will be eager to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts, but the Ministry of Magic and the heads of the participating schools have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders. Only students who are of age — that is seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put their names forward for consideration.”

Cries of outrage interrupted his explanation. The Weasley twins looked particularly hurt and were scowling and muttering mutinously as Dumbledore, eyes twinkling in precisely their direction, pleaded with the underage student population not to test him by trying to submit themselves. Then Dumbledore informed them all that delegations from the other two schools would spend the year at Hogwarts beginning in October and he warned everyone to be respectful.

“And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to be alert and well-rested for the start of your lessons tomorrow. Bedtime!  Off you go now!”

The discussion continued as the students headed for their dormitories. The Weasley twins were already scheming, trying to figure out what Dumbledore might do to keep them from entering and ways they might use to get around it.

“I don’t know why you bother,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore knows you’re not of age.”

“But Dumbledore isn’t the one choosing the champions,” Fred said loftily. “Sounds like he’s just trying to keep us from entering our names but once we’re in, this judge will just choose the best name and not care how old we are.”

“So we’re definitely going to try and enter,” George said. “What about you, Ron?  Think you’ll try?”

“What do you think, Harry?” Ron asked. “It’d be cool, right?  But I s’pose they might want someone older... Dunno if we’ve learned enough yet.”

The group of Gryffindors rounded the last turn and came to a stop outside the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Password?” she said.

“Balderdash,” Fred said.

The portrait swung open to reveal the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, warm from the crackling fire in the huge hearth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, boys,” Hermione said. “Good night.”

“Night,” they chorused as she turned and climbed the spiral staircase to the girls’ dormitories. Then they climbed the other stair towards the boys’ dorms

Harry and Ron entered their dorm to find Neville settling his toad into its tank amid a variety of miniature plants. Seamus had hung up some Ireland souvenirs from the Quidditch World Cup and Dean was hanging a poster of Victor Krum next to his usual poster of the West Ham football club. Ron took a moment to hang a Chudley Cannons pennant and take his Victor Krum figurine out to display it on his nightstand. Harry had nothing much to personalize his space with. His souvenirs had stayed at the Black House and Hedwig had already been sent on to the owlery. He did take his Firebolt out of his trunk where its bristles might go askew if left too long and put it up on the top of his wardrobe, but that was the extent of it. He put on his pajamas, went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then returned and slipped into bed. In the dark, with everyone quiet in their beds, the storm outside sounded louder. Harry listened to its rhythms and felt his body relax.

“I might go in for it, you know,” Ron whispered from the bed next to Harry’s. “If Fred and George find a way.”

“Hmm,” Harry hummed noncommittally, then rolled over, away from Ron, and concentrated on the sound of the rain against the glass window and soon he drifted off into sleep.

*****

The next morning over breakfast, the prefects were handing out schedules to each Gryffindor. Harry accepted his and groaned. A full afternoon of Divination on their first day. The prospect filled him with gloom. He looked up to the staff table and saw Professor McGonagall already speaking with another student. Harry got up and waited for the chance to talk to her.

“Yes, Mr Potter?” she asked when the sixth-year had left.

“I was hoping I could change electives this year,” Harry said.

“That would depend on which electives and when they’re offered.”

“I want to drop Divination and start Arithmancy instead.”

“We’ll have to check with Professor Vector, but I think she’d want to start you off with third year Arithmancy. Here, let’s go talk to her,” McGonagall said, standing and leading the way down the staff table. “Septima, do you have a moment?”

Professor Vector put down her cup of coffee and said, “Of course, Minerva.”

“Mr Potter?” McGonagall said.

“Oh, I’d like to switch from Divination to Arithmancy,” he said. “Can I do that?”

“Mr Potter is a fourth year this year and in my house,” Professor McGonagall added.

“Will you work hard to catch up on what you’ve missed?” Vector asked Harry.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry replied.

“Then I think we should start you in third year and get you a tutor in fourth year or above. If it goes well, we could try to move you to the fourth year class after Christmas. My third year class meets on Wednesday afternoons. Is that possible with your schedule?”

Harry looked down at his paper and nodded. “Yeah. I have free periods then.”

“Alright. You’ll need to Owl Order the text if you don’t have it already. It’s called _Numerology and Gramatica_ and I believe it costs 2 Galleons, 4 Sickles at Flourish and Blotts.”

Harry committed the title to memory and thanked both professors.

“I’ll let Professor Trelawney know not to expect you,” Professor McGonagall said and then sent him back to his house table to finish eating.

“What was that all about, Harry?” Hermione asked. “You got your schedule and just ran off.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t stand the thought of spending all afternoon in Divination,” he said. Just the thought of how many times Trelawney could predict his death in that long a class made him feel a little ill. “I talked to Professor Vector and I’m going to start Arithmancy with the third years instead. I have to get a tutor though and see if I can make up some of what I missed to be able to move up to fourth year.”

“See, I knew leaving Trelawney’s class was the right thing to do,” Hermione said. “And I can be your Arithmancy tutor. It’s one of my best subjects.”

“No!” Ron moaned. “You’re really going to leave me all by myself in that class?”

Harry shrugged. “You could quit too.”

“Can’t,” Ron said morosely. “Mum says I have to take a full course load.”

“Switch to a different class then, like I am,” Harry suggested.

Ron scoffed. “We chose Divination for the easy O, remember. I’m too lazy to try something hard.”

“Well, Muggle Studies is probably an easy class,” Harry said, shrugging helplessly.

“Yes, I thought it was very easy,” Hermione said, though she was giving him a disappointed look.

“Yeah, but you’re muggleborn,” Ron said dismissively, “and every class is easy for you.”

“I’m sure you could do it, Ron. You’re sister’s starting this year too, isn’t she?” Hermione said.

“But I don’t want to start with the third years,” Ron moaned. “Be in a class with Ginny — no way!”

“Sorry, Ron,” Harry said, throwing up his arms “I couldn’t stand Divination anymore. I just really couldn’t. If that’s the only elective you want to take, well, I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“I get it,” Ron said dismally.

“I’m so glad you’ve decided to take your academic future seriously, Harry,” Hermione told him proudly. “I’ll draw up a schedule for you immediately.”

“No hurry, Hermione,” Harry said, hoping she wouldn’t be too much of a slave driver as his tutor. “I still have to send an Owl Order for the book and when I get it, then I have to read it. I don’t even have my first class until Wednesday afternoon.”

“Wednesday?  But that’s our afternoon free,” Ron groaned. “You’re going to be in class?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m just lucky Third Year Arithmancy was during my free period and not Potions or Defense or something,” he said. “I’ll have all afternoon off today. Without you guys around, I guess I’ll actually have to get stuff done.”

Ron sighed. The three students polished off the last of their breakfasts.

“It’s getting late. We should head back to the Tower and get ready for Herbology,” Hermione said.


	16. The Unforgivables

“Merlin!” Ron whinged as they were walking back to the castle after their first Care of Magical Creatures class. “What was Hagrid thinking?  Skrewts?  I mean, I just don’t know.”

“Believe me, Ron, we feel the same way,” Hermione said miserably.

Harry didn’t say anything, he just stared at the burn on his left hand as it grew more and more red and throbbed painfully with each movement. When his bag accidentally knocked into it as he climbed the school’s front steps, his knees buckled with the pain and he only just steadied himself to keep from falling. When they got inside the school at last, while Hermione and Ron were debating going to the library or back to the Common Room for their short break before lunch, Harry said, “I think I’ll go to the Hospital Wing. See you later.”

“Is your hand that bad?” Hermione asked, giving Harry a worried look.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, grimacing. He was now pretty sure that if he didn’t get a Burn Salve on tonight, it would be a blistered mess tomorrow, just in time for his first potions lesson. “I’ll catch up with you at lunch, alright?”

“We can walk you,” Hermione said. She and Ron looked worried.

“Yeah, mate. It’s on the way,” Ron pointed out.

“Alright.”

They were heading in the direction of the Hospital Ward when a haughty voice interrupted from behind them called, “Weasley!  Didn’t you see the paper this morning?  You’re dad’s in it!” Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were grinning up at them.

“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” Ron snapped, looking at Malfoy with a look of disgust he hadn’t even mustered for the Blast-Ended Skrewts.

“Listen to this!” Malfoy said. He proceeded to read the highlights of an article which managed to mess up Mr Weasley’s first name, bring up the flying car business, lambaste Professor Moody, imply Mr Weasley had overstepped the bounds of his office and exercised poor judgment, and suggest a Ministry cover-up all in the same piece.

Ron was red and quivering with rage.

“Let me guess,” Harry said, cutting off Malfoy before he could make more commentary on the article. “A Rita Skeeter exclusive?  You shouldn’t put your trust in that woman, Malfoy.” Then Harry used his grip with his good hand on the back of Ron’s robes to push his friends to continue towards the stairs.

It wasn’t the reaction Malfoy had been hoping for. “And look!  There’s even a picture of your parents in front of their hovel — I mean house!  Hey, your mother could stand to lose a bit of weight!”

Ron spun around and tore past Harry, launching himself at Malfoy but landing on Crabbe and Goyle as they stepped forward to intercept. Anticipating trouble from Harry and Hermione too even though they hadn’t yet moved, Malfoy grabbed his wand and suddenly a white-hot spell whizzed past Harry’s ear and impacted the wall behind him.

“OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE,” a gravely voice growled from the top of the stairs.

Harry spun and saw Professor Moody limping down the stairs, wand trained on — Harry turned to follow it back to where Malfoy had been standing — a small, white ferret, shaking like a leaf on the stone floor.

As the students gathered in the Entrance Hall realized what was happening, it suddenly became very still and very tense. When Moody turned to Harry to make sure Malfoy’s spell hadn’t hurt him, someone unfroze.

“Leave it!” Moody shouted, confusing Harry.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Not you. Him,” Moody said, spinning around and jabbing his wand at Crabbe causing everyone including Crabbe to leap backwards away from the ferret and Moody’s wand point. The ferret too was frightened and took off scurrying across the flagged floor towards the dungeons.

“I don’t think so!” roared Moody, training his wand on the ferret again. Suddenly, the ferret shrieked as it lifted into the air. It flew higher and higher, well above the heads of even those who’d frozen fearfully in the act of climbing the stairs. And then it slammed downwards and impacted the stone floor hard. The little creature, _Malfoy!_  Harry reminded himself, squealed in pain. But Moody sent it soaring upwards again.

“I don’t like people who attack while their opponent has his back’s turned!” Moody spat.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted, his wand pointed at Moody beside him.

“Ho ho!” Moody growled, wand still in hand, turning to Harry and leaving Malfoy to continue bouncing hard into the stone floor. “You’ve got balls, boy!”

Harry took a step backwards as Moody’s eyes, both of them, focused in on him intently. He felt a jolt of fear run through him and he began to flounder for a plan.

“Professor Moody!” McGonagall gasped, coming down the staircase, arms full of books.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” Moody said calmly, slowly turning around.

“What are you doing?” McGonagall asked, her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she took in the sight of the bouncing ferret.

“Teaching,” Moody replied.

“Teach — Moody, is that a student?” she shrieked, dropping the books and running the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Yep,” said Moody.

“No!” McGonagall cried, pulling out her wand. And with a loud snap, the ferret was lowered to the ground and returned to his normal Malfoy shape, though looking highly disheveled and, lying in a heap as he was, likely in a great deal of pain as well. After a moment, he got to his feet, slowly and with great effort.

“Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!” McGonagall shouted, livid. “We give detentions, speak to the student’s Head of House, send them before the Headmaster!”

Malfoy muttered something about “my father” as he painfully bent to collect his dropped school bag.

Moody rounded on him again. “I know your father of old, boy. You tell him, Moody’s keeping an eye on his son. And your Head of House, Snape, right?  Another old friend,” Moody growled menacingly. “In fact, we’ll have a word with him now, shall we?”

Moody made a grab for Malfoy’s arm.

“Malfoy ought to go to the Hospital Ward,” Harry said loudly.

“Indeed, I should think so,” Professor McGonagall snapped angrily.

Malfoy, who had gone ghostly white when Moody turned on him again, looked at McGonagall like he’d never been more grateful to another person in his life.

Professor Moody sneered as Malfoy scurried across the hall and around behind Professor McGonagall where he stayed, hidden. Moody snorted in disgust and then turned and limped off towards the dungeons alone.

Professor McGonagall turned around and survey Malfoy. “Go see Madam Pomfrey, Mr Malfoy. You’ll undoubtedly be expected in Professor Snape’s office when you’re mended.”

At last, Hermione and Ron unfroze and hurried to Harry’s side, eager to tell Professor McGonagall what Malfoy and the Slytherins had done.

Professor McGonagall held up a hand. “You all have less than ten minutes until lunch. Into the Hall now, all of you.” She cast a spell to gather up her dropped books.

Hermione and Ron, with some worried looks over their shoulder at Harry, reluctantly obeyed Professor McGonagall and went into the Great Hall. Harry resumed his trek to the Hospital Wing. The delay had not helped his hand which was now quite swollen in addition to being hot and painful.

“Why are you following me, Potter,” Malfoy demanded, though the obvious pain he was in sapped at his usual venom.

“I’m not. I need a Burn Salve.”

Malfoy sneered nastily. “That oaf’s dumb ‘skrewts’, huh?  My father always said—”

“Your father’s not here, Malfoy,” Harry interrupted, already tetchy enough without having to listen to Draco Malfoy’s pompous drivel.

“Well it’s true. The oaf’s tolerable as a groundskeeper but he’s dangerous as a professor,” Malfoy protested.

With the throb in Harry’s hand getting worse by the step, he wasn’t feeling very charitable towards Hagrid at the moment so he said nothing.

“What, nothing to say in Hagrid’s defense?” Malfoy sneered.

Harry rolled his eyes and thought fast. “I’m putting it down to the pain your in. And in your condition, I’d think you’d be trying hard not to pick another fight. We’re here.”

Harry used his good hand to open the door to the Hospital Wing and walked in ahead of Malfoy. He didn’t hold the door. His only charitable act, taking into consideration the condition Malfoy was in, was that he threw the door open far enough that Malfoy could probably get through, if he hurried, before it hit him in the arse.

“Hello, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey called when he walked into her ward. “What brings you to my door?  Oh, and Mr Malfoy too. Let’s have it, now. What’s wrong?”

Malfoy groaned a bit as he crossed the room and took the nearest bed. “That bastard Moody,” he spat, grimacing as he lay down. “He transfigured me and then bounced me into the floor and the ceiling and the walls. My father—”

“I suspect your father has a history with Professor Moody,” Madam Pomfrey said warningly.

Malfoy apparently knew this and scowled. “Well, are you going to fix me up or what?”

Madam Pomfrey turned to Harry. “What’s the matter with you?”

Harry held up his swollen, red hand with a mournful look.

“Oh my,” she said in a bemused sort of voice that suggested to Harry that fixing him up today would be a walk in the park next to her some of things she’d treated. “Hop up on any bed. It seems Mr Malfoy’s hurt worse so you’ll have to wait your turn.”

Harry nodded and took a bed farther down the ward, away from Malfoy.

Madam Pomfrey began with some standard diagnostic spells while she talked quietly with Malfoy. After a few minutes, she told him something, then went to a cupboard and took out a potion Harry was familiar with from some nasty Quidditch accidents. She measured out a dose in a dosing cup and took it to Malfoy.

“Drink that potion, Mr Malfoy. Once it’s taken care of your concussion, I can give you a pain relief potion.”

“Will you call my father?” Malfoy asked with more vulnerability than Harry would have expected.

“Once that potion’s taken effect, I still have to manage your pain and give you some Skele-gro for your broken rib. Then when you’re on the mend, I’ll call your father,” she promised soothingly.

Madam Pomfrey returned to the cupboard for more potions, then disappeared again behind Malfoy’s screen and they resumed talking in voices too quiet for Harry to hear.

It took several minutes for Madam Pomfrey to finish dosing Malfoy up. But when he was resting and waiting for his potions to work, she came over to look after Harry.

She did a quick examination of his blistering hand and then told him, “Wait just a minute, while I get some salve and a bandage. Now how did this happen, dear?  I thought Filius wasn’t covering hand-held fires until Christmas time.”

“I was distracted in Care of Magical Creatures,” Harry said, sighing. “Hagrid’s been doing some experimental breeding and our class has been trying to figure out the result. I wasn’t fast enough.”

Madam Pomfrey came to his bedside and drew up a tall stool to sit on. “Hold your arm out,” she ordered, then began by rolling up the sleeve of his robes. “So tell me about these nasties so I know what to expect from you lot. They look like Fire Salamanders or something?”

“Manticore and Fire Crab’s what he said, I think,” Harry said, letting out a shaky, relieved sigh as she cast a Cooling Charm over his abused hand. “To be honest, they look like great ugly garden slugs with stings and blood-suckers that fart fire and he’s got bloody hundreds of them.”

“Language,” she warned, though her concentration was on rubbing the Burn Salve all over the surface of Harry’s hand. “Are they quite large, these slugs?”

“No, but they’ve only just hatched. Who knows how big they’ll get?” Harry said, sounding like a doomed man. “You know how Hagrid is. The bigger, the better with him.”

“Hmm,” Madam Pomfrey hummed disapprovingly as she set one end of the bandage to Harry’s wrist and then began expertly winding. “I had another of his students in earlier this morning. I can’t see how he’ll get tenure if I have to treat one student every class session. But perhaps it will improve when everyone is over their first day jitters.” She got to the end of the bandage, Harry’s hand now a cloth club, and pinned the end with a safety pin.

“Now you don’t have Potions or Herbology this afternoon, do you?  I’ll write you a note if you do because that hand needs to stay clean until the burn’s healed.”

“No. I have the afternoon off. Thanks, Madam Pomfrey. It’s feeling better already,” Harry said.

“One more thing,” she said and drew her wand. “Impervious!” she cast. “That will help but do try to keep the bandage dry. You can take it off before you go to bed tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. If it hasn’t stopped aching by then, come back and I’ll take another look.”

Harry smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Of course, dear.” She dropped her voice to scarcely a whisper and added, “Are you free Thursday just after dinner?  Professor Snape and I need to meet with you and talk. Have you been sleeping alright lately?”

Harry shrugged and whispered back. “Yeah. Fine. I haven’t had any really bad nightmares since the World Cup. But I’ll be here.”

“Good. You can go back about your day now, dear.” She smiled kindly at him.

Harry returned her smile and quickly escaped the ward. She’d promised to call Malfoy’s father and he didn’t want to be around if the Malfoys came in person to see their son. Besides, lunch was starting and he was starving.

*****

“For next class, I want you all to finish applying Fundamental Numerology to your names and have it ready to hand in. And do keep up with your reading. We’ll be diving into Chapter 1 at length next week and I want all of you to have read it thoroughly in advance. That’s all. Have a nice day,” Professor Vector finished cheerily as the Wednesday afternoon class period ended.

A whole class had gone by without Harry’s death being foretold even once. “Well that was nice,” Harry remarked to Luna, his tablemate. She was the only student he knew in this third year Arithmancy class and so he’d chosen the seat next to her and they’d partnered together on their classwork.

“Yes, it was,” Luna agreed.

They collected their belongings and left the classroom together. As they headed down the corridor, a Gryffindor prefect came walking briskly towards them.

“Potter, the Headmaster wants to see you,” he said.

“Okay. See you later, Luna,” Harry said. He’d been wondering how long it would be before Dumbledore wanted to see him. Surely, even with Dobby’s loyalty to Harry, his summer change of residence couldn’t have gone completely unnoticed by Dumbledore.

The prefect nodded and continued on to Professor Vector’s office, beyond her classroom. Harry left Luna and headed for the Headmaster’s Office. When he got there, he told the gargoyle, “Professor Dumbledore is expecting me.”

The gargoyle slid aside and Harry stepped through and rode the spiraling staircase to the top.

“Come in,” Dumbledore called just as Harry reached the top.

Harry opened the door and stepped in to Dumbledore’s comfortable office. But the warm sunshine cutting beams of light across the room stood in stark contrast to the cool expression on Professor Dumbledore’s face.

“Take a seat, Harry,” Professor Dumbledore said. He looked much more grave than Harry would have expected about something as simple as leaving the Dursleys (like he had each summer previously). It worried Harry.

“Has something happened, Professor?” Harry asked concernedly as he took a seat. He just hoped this wasn’t about the theft.

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?” Dumbledore said, looking mildly puzzled.

“You just looked so serious,” Harry said, still uneasy about the things he’d done that Dumbledore could have found out about. “What did you want to see me about then?”

Dumbledore became suddenly more intense as he looked at Harry. “I’m afraid what I wished to talk to you about today is a very serious matter. Professor Moody has requested that I allow him a unit on the three Unforgivable Curses for all Defense students fourth year and up. I’ve granted him that. The unit begins for your class tomorrow.”

Harry stiffened. This was not a conversation he’d expected. They’d be covering the Killing Curse. His mind’s eye provided the flash of sickly green spell-light that had haunted his dreams as a child. He swallowed hard. “Will there be demonstrations?”

“I believe so — on spiders. If the initial lessons go well, Professor Moody has also asked for and received my permission to cast the Imperius Curse on each student in an effort to teach all of you to resist it. These dreadful curses were used extensively in the last war and the one before it. Myself and Professor Moody feel that students must appreciate the severity of these spells and should learn all possible defenses against them.”

Harry nodded. That was true, of course, and he bowed to Dumbledore’s greater educational knowledge as to whether these lessons were really age-appropriate to his classmates. He was a little puzzled by Dumbledore’s concern for him personally though. He’d expected a lesson like this to come up eventually for the very reasons Dumbledore had cited.

“Will you tell Neville too?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore looked at him critically. “Neville Longbottom?  Do you know some reason that I should?”

Harry shot Dumbledore a perplexed look. “Because of what happened to his parents. Isn’t that the reason you wanted to warn me?”

“Ah yes, of course,” Dumbledore said, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “I wonder though, how you came to know about that incident. I was under the belief that it was not something Mr Longbottom wished to be widely known.”

Harry became even more confused and his gaze fell to his lap as he tried to think back to where he’d learned about it. But he couldn’t. It seemed like something he’d just always known. “Neville must have mentioned it,” Harry said, shrugging off his uncertainty and looking back up at Dumbledore.

“I did not realize you were friends with Mr Longbottom,” Dumbledore pressed.

Harry began to feel a little uneasy about Dumbledore’s interest. He frowned. “I’ve been dormmates with Neville for years and we have a lot in common,” Harry insisted. “I respect Neville and while we’re not best mates like I am with Hermione and Ron, I still consider Neville a friend.”

Rather abruptly, Dumbledore observed, “You seem to be making more pureblood friends lately.” The tone was just off nonchalant.

“What?” Harry asked, genuinely confused.

“There is Mr Longbottom and you’ve also become friendly with Ms Lovegood of Ravenclaw recently, as well as Ronald and Ginerva Weasley, of course. In fact, in your circle of friends, the only non-pureblood is Ms Granger and even she is no longer just a muggleborn.”

Harry was taken aback. “I guess so,” he said hesitantly, though it surprised him to realize that. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Blood purity’s never mattered to me.”

This seemed to cheer Dumbledore up a little. He sent Harry along to dinner with a promise to speak to Neville before Defense too.

As Harry headed towards the Great Hall though, he had to add to his worries about Dumbledore. While Dumbledore hadn’t brought up his summer or the theft, something else had definitely been going on in there. Had this been about him trying to disarm Moody?  Moody had seemed impressed at the time, but sometimes things changed when it was no longer the heat of the moment. Still, Harry could hardly feel sorry for doing it. Moody had let his hatred of dark wizards and Death Eaters spill over into attacking Draco Malfoy and that concerned Harry. Had he been a child himself, he might have felt bolstered by that incident, like when Hagrid had done the same thing to Dudley and Harry had been pleased to see the chief bully of his childhood brought down by his new friend. But Harry wasn’t a child anymore; he’d seen how wrong it was and he’d had to try to stop it. Or was it maybe something else, something simpler?  Had Dumbledore wanted to see his reaction to learning they’d be covering the Unforgivables?  Maybe that was it. Maybe he’d wanted to look for signs of Tom Riddle in Harry’s behavior. Harry could only hope that whatever it was, he’d passed the test.

*****

“Where have you been?” Ron whinged impatiently at Harry and Hermione. Harry hadn’t talked about what Dumbledore had said. He wasn’t sure why.

“In the library studying Arithmancy,” Harry snapped. This class had been weighing on his mind since Dumbledore warned him about the lesson.

“Well c’mon!  If we don’t hurry, we won’t get decent seats!” Ron ordered. He was looking forward to this lesson. Moody was something of a hero to him, in large part due to the ferret incident. In the days since, Ron had eagerly speculated on what embarrassing creature Moody might turn each of the Slytherins into. He was also taking special pleasure in seeing Snape have to watch himself around Moody. Harry had noticed it first, that Snape seemed to be avoiding Moody’s eye and behaving (often with a look of self-disgust only barely noticeable on his face) in only the most upright manner around Moody. It thrilled Ron. It worried Harry.

Harry shook his head sadly but followed Ron as he bounded into the Defense classroom. Ron’s face fell. The only spaces with three adjacent seats were towards the back of the classroom.

“It’s alright if you want to sit up front,” Harry said. “I’ll take one of the seats further back.” Without waiting for a response, Harry hurried to the very back of the class and took a seat.

Hermione sat down beside him, took out her copy of _The Dark Forces; A Guide to Self-Protection_ , and her note-taking materials. Up front, Ron was grinning as he claimed a front row seat between Lavender Brown and Dean Thomas. Soon they heard Moody’s distinctive walk, the clunk of his wooden clawed foot alternating unevenly with the thump of his old leather boot.

“You can put those away. Those books, you won’t need them,” Moody said. He shut the classroom door behind himself and then crossed to the front desk and took a seat behind it.

There was a great rustling as students hurried to put their books away. Up front, Moody took out the register and began calling roll.

“Right,” he said when he’d finished. “Now I’ve had a letter from Professor Lupin and according to him, you’ve got a pretty good grounding in dark creatures — Red Caps, hinkypunks, Kappas, grindylows, werewolves, vampires, and boggarts, is that right?”

The students nodded in agreement.

“But you’re behind — very behind — on dealing with curses,” Moody said, “so I’m here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other.”

Harry looked around the room at the shiver of excitement that ran through many of his classmates. He met Neville’s eyes though, and saw someone else who heard ‘what wizards can do to each other’ and didn’t think of fun.

Moody led a good lecture on the Unforgivables and demonstrated them on three large spiders he pulled from a jar in his desk. For the Imperius Curse, he’d made the spider leap from his hand on a thread of spider silk and perform some acrobatics, then Moody jerked his wand and the spider rose onto two of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably a tap dance. Many of the students laughed. Harry did not. Nor did Hermione beside him. Perhaps because she knew, as a werewolf, what it was to be robbed of your free will, forced to do or be something that you didn’t want to be.

“Think its funny, do you?” Moody growled. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?”

The laughter died.

Hermione shakily raised her hand, looking quite nervous about drawing attention to herself but she was simply too curious not to ask her burning question.

“What?” Moody barked.

“Please, sir,” Hermione began tentatively. “I was w-wondering how the spider could know what you w-wanted it to do?  I mean, not how you ordered it, but I mean, you think l-like a human, speak like a human... and the spider, it only knows spider.”

Both of Moody’s eyes focused in critically on Hermione. “I thought this was a Gryffindor class,” he said. “That’s a Ravenclaw question.” The way Moody said it, Harry figured Moody must have been a Ravenclaw himself.

“Sorry, sir,” Hermione said, shrinking away from the unnerving glare.

“The answer is, I don’t know. Could be just magic. Could be that intent or force of will exists outside of language. When the caster conceives of an order, it may not matter what language its in, then it travels along the link created by the curse and into the victim where the victim experiences the order as their own mind interprets it, in their own language or simply as a need or desire. I don’t know and I don’t know that anybody knows.

“But it doesn’t really matter how it happens because none of you will ever be casting it,” Moody growled in a threatening voice.

Hermione looked taken aback. “Of course not, sir,” she gasped.

Next had come the Cruciatus Curse. The spider’s legs curled into its body. It rolled over and began to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side. Every fiber of Harry’s body remembered, seeing that spider, what it was like to be under that curse. He didn’t feel the pain, but he remembered a voice dripping with hatred and disgust cursing him and then feeling what that spider was feeling. Harry shuddered and shook himself out of the memory just as Hermione said, “Stop it!”

Harry looked over, expecting to see Hermione looking mournfully at the poor spider, but what he saw was Hermione frantically looking between him and Neville who was in the midst of his own bad reaction to the demonstration. Neville’s eyes were wide with horror and his hands were clenching the edge of his desk so hard that his knuckles were white and his elbows quivered from the exertion of his arm muscles.

Moody raised his wand. The spider continued to twitch. “Reducio!” The spider shrunk back to its ordinary size and Moody returned it to the jar.

“Pain. You don’t need thumbscrews or knives to torture...” Moody continued, but Harry turned away.

Hermione met his eyes, hers full of concern. He gave her a small, encouraging smile. She turned abruptly back to Neville who was still ghostly pale but had let go of his desk and had crossed his arms in his lap, tight to his body, almost like he were surreptitiously hugging himself against the distress he was feeling. It had to be hard for him, seeing the curse that had destroyed his parents. Harry knew it was his turn to face the same because there was only one Unforgivable left.

“The Killing Curse,” Hermione’s shaky voice said beside him. Harry turned his attention back to the lecture. Moody had asked for the third curse and called on her to identify it.

“Ah yes,” Moody said, another little smile twisting his lopsided mouth. “Yes, the last and the worst. The Killing Curse... Avada Kedavra.”

Moody snatched the last spider from the jar and put it on the desk. The little creature scurried across the desk, trying to get away, but Moody aimed his wand and roared, “Avada Kedavra!”

There was a flash of acid green light, the light that had always haunted Harry’s nightmares. Several students stifled cries. It surprised Harry that he wasn’t one of them.

“Not nice, not pleasant,” Moody said. “There’s no counter-curse. You can’t block it with any spell. Only one person has ever survived it, and he’s sitting right in front of me.”

Harry’s blood ran cold as both of Moody’s eyes singled in on him and everyone else turned to look at him too. He felt every one of those eyes on him and a frisson of fear shuddered its way up his spine. That spell had such an air of finality. By the time you saw the light, it was already too late.

“Now listen close, because I’m only going to say this once,” Moody said, calling everyone’s attention back front. “Unless you’re Mr Potter, the only way not to die if someone sends that spell at you and really means it, is to not let it hit you. Dodge, run, shelter behind something, and above all, get away as fast as you can.”

For the rest of the class, no one spoke. They merely copied down about each of the three Unforgivables. But when the period ended and Moody dismissed the class, most of the students broke into enthusiastic chatter, discussing the curses in awed voices. Harry couldn’t take it. It wasn’t some spectacular entertainment show. People got hurt. People died.


	17. A Meeting, a Moon, and More Moody

Harry pushed through the crowd, angry and disgusted at them for utterly failing to see the horror of it all. He didn’t want to believe they were just too young to get it. He wanted to be angry at them for being so stupid. He thundered past Ron without acknowledging him and didn’t stop until he fell in beside Neville. Hermione, who had hurried to keep up with him, came up on Harry’s other side.

“Neville?” she said gently.

Neville jerked back to the present and looked around. His eyes fell on Harry and Hermione and took in each of their expressions. “Oh hello,” he said, his voice strained. “Interesting lesson, wasn’t—”

“No. I don’t think it was,” Harry interrupted.

Neville looked relieved to hear that. He closed his mouth and looked ahead again as they walked towards the main staircase several paces ahead of their noisy classmates.

“Forget the Great Hall,” Harry said. “Let’s go to the kitchens. The elves will give us something and we can take it back to our dorms I could do with a little peace while everyone’s at dinner.”

Neville nodded.

Harry looked to Hermione who smiled a little, sad smile. “It will be good to see Dobby again,” she said.

So Harry lead the way down the main staircase to the Entrance Hall and then down the corridor against the tide of Hufflepuffs. They were nearly to the kitchen when they found the source of the Hufflepuffs. There, swinging open and shut as students left, was a large painting of a comfortable study lit by the warm glow from the fire in the hearth. The only inhabitant in the picture seemed to be an enormous wolfhound.

As they passed, the door opened again and a small girl stepped through. Harry, Hermione, and Neville, just caught a glimpse of the Hufflepuff Common Room beyond with its plush black carpet and yellow-hued hangings on the walls, its comfortable armchairs and inviting atmosphere. The little girl closed the portrait door and stopped to say hello to the dog who bounding excitedly around on the rug in front of the fire.

“The Sorting Hat almost put me in Hufflepuff,” Neville said as they continued on towards the kitchens.

“It looks kind of nice,” Harry said, nodding. “The Hat said I could do well in Gryffindor or Slytherin. I chose Gryffindor, of course.”

“Really?” Neville asked, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not something I really think everyone needs to know,” Harry said shrugging.

“The Hat considered Ravenclaw for me,” Hermione admitted, “but in the end, it chose Gryffindor.”

“I thought it was just me,” Neville said. “Do you think everyone’s suited to more than one house?”

“Most people, probably,” Harry replied. “Here we are.” He stopped in front of the familiar still life painting and tickled the pear. It giggled and the painting swung open.

“Oh, how odd!” Neville said, smiling bemusedly at the wiggling, giggling pear.

Harry held the door open for Hermione, and then Neville, then followed them into the kitchens.

The kitchen was bustling with activity. While all of the main dinner service had already been delivered to the tables upstairs, there were still elves putting the finishing touches on plates of deserts and many elves were presently engaged in washing the pots and pans and cooking utensils that had been used in the preparation of dinner.

“Messrs and Miss is not being in the Great Hall?” a uniformed elf with droopy ears came up to them to ask. “Messrs and Miss is needing something?  Dilly is happy to serve.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dilly,” Hermione said, smiling. “My name’s Hermione. These are my friends Harry and Neville.”

“Hello,” Harry said politely.

Neville looked at them curiously. The Longbottoms had house elves, but his Gran tended to be stern with them, treating them as employees, not friends like Hermione was.

“I know it’s very busy down here and it’s asking a lot, but do you think you could get us a plate of something simple to eat and a drink for each of us?  We’d like to take it back to our common room, if you don’t mind.”

“Dilly can do this. Is Messrs and Miss liking sandwiches?”

“Yes, thank you, Dilly. That would be wonderful,” Hermione said.

“Could we have some tea, too?” Neville interjected politely.

Dilly skipped happily. “Messrs and Miss is waiting right here. Dilly is being back with sandwiches and tea.” The little elf scurried away enthusiastically.

“How did you know where the kitchen was?” Neville asked while they waited. “I didn’t know students were allowed down here.”

“Fred and George told me,” Harry said, nearly truthfully. He had learned about it from the Weasley twins, only it had been through the map they’d given him — and he still hadn’t got it back from Lupin. “They said there’s no rule against it.”

“Do you trust them on that?” Neville asked, a little worried.

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. “I looked it up and they’re right. I’ve seen them reading the rulebook. I think they’re working on breaking as many as possible while they’re here.”

“Well that’s... interesting,” Neville said diplomatically.

“They’re brilliant inventors,” Harry said in their defense. “They just like causing mayhem. They’re fun, if they’re your friends.”

“I guess so,” Neville said. “Hey, is that elf waving at you from the dish cupboard another friend of yours?”

Harry looked where Neville had indicated with a nod of his head and saw Dobby levitating a big stack of plates onto a high shelf with one hand and waving at Harry excitedly with the other. The plates teetered and Harry winced, waiting for the crash, but it didn’t come. He chanced a look and saw that Dobby had realized the danger and refocused his attention in time.

“Yeah, that’s Dobby. We probably shouldn’t distract him while he’s working though. He loses focus easily,” Hermione said.

Dilly returned then, levitating two trays for them. Harry took the sandwiches and Hermione the tea.

“Thank you so much, Dilly,” Hermione said, smiling at her.

“Miss is welcome,” Dilly said. "Messrs and Miss is leaving the dishes in their common room tonight, please.”

“We can do that. Thank you,” Harry said. “And do you think you could give Dobby a message for us when he’s not so busy?”

“Dilly can do this,” she said, nodding agreeably.

“Tell him we can see that he’s very busy—”

“— doing useful and necessary work,” Hermione interjected.

This seemed to mean something to Dilly, who grinned at her.

“— and that we’ll try to stop in another time and see him again,” Harry said.

Dilly nodded. “Dilly is telling Dobby this. This is being all Messrs and Miss is needing of Dilly?”

“Yes. We’ll go back to Gryffindor now and get out of your hair,” Harry said gratefully.

“Dilly is not having any hair,” the elf said, giving him a puzzled look.

“I think he means ‘under feet’,” Hermione whispered conspiratorially. Harry belatedly recalled that Winky had used that phrase too once or twice as a way of politely telling him she wanted to do the work he was trying to take over.

“Ah, Dilly understands now,” the elf said. Then she scurried away again.

“Alright, back to the tower,” Hermione said, turning away. “Neville, would you get the door please?”

*****

“It sounds like dinner is over,” Hermione said, sighing. They’d been having a quiet dinner in the solitude of the fourth year boys’ dorm room while the rest of the Gryffindors ate in the Great Hall. But now the sounds out in the common room were starting to pick up.

“How long until our dormmates get back, do you think?” Neville asked hopefully.

“Ron will be late. He likes second helpings of dessert,” Hermione said. “I don’t know about Dean and Seamus though.”

“I guess our dinner’s over,” Harry sighed, getting up. “I have somewhere to be.”

“You do?  Wh—” Hermione began.

“Don’t ask, Hermione,” Harry said, not unkindly, but sometimes he wanted more privacy than his friends gave him.

“Okay,” Hermione said, shrugging.

Harry stood and brushed the crumbs off his clothes. Neville gave him a strange look, then whipped out his wand and cleaned up the fallen crumbs.

“Oh. Thanks,” Harry said sheepishly. The thought of using magic for that hadn’t occurred to him but he supposed now that he thought about it, in a big old castle, it wasn’t a good idea to be leaving crumbs around everywhere. “Right, well, see you later,” he said, then he headed for the Hospital Wing.

“Hello, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey said, giving him a kind smile when he walked through the doors.

Snape stood beside her with his arms crossed before him looking very sour. He said nothing.

“I thought it would be best if we had this conversation in my quarters. I know the Hospital Wing, and even my office, can seem a bit, well, clinical.”

Madam Pomfrey led Harry and Snape through to her sitting room. “Have a seat, please,” she said.

Just as they all sat, Snape quickly taking the armchair and leaving Harry and Poppy to share the sofa, a house elf popped in carrying a tea service.

“Thank you, Lettuce,” Poppy said as the elf sat it on the low table before them. Lettuce disappeared and Poppy leaned forward to serve the tea. “I know you like it with milk and two sugars, Severus. What about you, Harry?”

“Just one sugar, please,” Harry said.

“I know you weren’t living at home when I came to check on you this summer, Harry, but did you get a chance to talk to your relatives?” Poppy asked as she handed him a cup.

Harry nodded. “Yes. I was there for a couple of weeks. They weren’t pleased, but they left me alone so we got along alright.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry. It couldn’t have been easy trying to recover without having the support of your family.”

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. “It’s not so bad.”

“It is!” Madam Pomfrey protested. “Harry, it’s terrible that you can’t count on your family. You mustn’t believe them. There are so many people here who would be devastated if you’d died.”

“One moment, Madam,” Snape interrupted sharply. “Just what are you saying about Mr Potter’s kin?”

“I mean those beastly muggles,” Poppy said. “Minnie went to speak to them while Harry was in the Hospital Wing after the attack and they were just horrible. They told her...” she hesitated and when she spoke again, it was much quieter, but not less angry. “They told her they’d rather he’d died in that attack.”

Snape looked back and forth between Poppy, full of fiery rage at the muggles’ mistreatment of Harry, and Harry, who was sitting with his head down and looking into his teacup with such intensity that it seemed the secrets of the universe might be found there. For several moments, silence reigned. And then Snape said very simply, “Continue.”

“Is that all you have to say, Severus?” Poppy snapped angrily.

“Yes,” Snape replied matter-of-factly.

“Well, I never,” Poppy huffed.

“He is living independently now. The time to address any deficiencies in his muggle relations has passed,” Snape told her and then without pause, he turned back to Harry and asked, “Have you had any more panic attacks before or since the Quidditch World Cup?”

Harry was deeply grateful to Snape in that moment. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath before looking up at Snape and replying with more confidence than he really felt, “No, none. I’ve woken up freaked out by nightmares, but it hasn’t been to the point that I can’t breathe and feel like I’ll pass out and suffocate.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter; you wouldn’t suffocate. If you passed out, your breathing would even out and you’d be just fine,” Snape informed him, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

“Severus,” Poppy snapped warningly.

“It’s okay, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said.

“Harry—” she began gently.

“Please,” Harry snapped. “Yes, my relatives are bastards, but don’t treat me with kid gloves now that you know.”

Poppy sighed. “I’m sorry, dear. I should have realized.”

“How frequently do you have these vivid nightmares?” Snape asked.

Harry shrugged. “Not too often.”

“One a month, one a week, one every night, more than one every night...?” Snape pressed with some irritation.

Harry shook his head. “One, maybe two, per month. It’s never more than one per night or more than one night in a row but I do get normal nightmares in the nights after the vivid ones and sometimes that makes it hard to get enough sleep.”

Snape nodded once and seemed to commit this to memory. “How often do you find it difficult to sleep and how long does each incident last?”

Harry sighed and tried to remember. He hadn’t had any serious bouts of insomnia since his trouble with time but knowing he had insomnia was just one of those random things he knew about himself. “More often than the nightmares, I guess, and I think once it starts, it lasts awhile.”

“Does it last until you are so exhausted you must sleep and then your sleep cycle goes back to normal or do you have multiple phases of exhaustion without a break?” Snape asked.

Harry shrugged. “A little of both?”

“Is that a question or an answer, Potter?” Snape snapped, irritated.

“Sorry, sir. Its only been a few months. I guess I don’t know yet,” Harry snapped back with some annoyance.

“That’s fine, Harry. We don’t expect you to know everything and we know that these things may change. Just try to keep us up to date on what you’re experiencing, okay?” Madam Pomfrey said placatingly. She shot a scowl at Snape and smiled kindly at Harry.

“Would you say you’ve been jumpy or unreasonably vigilant?” Snape asked, again steering the conversation from the personal to the professional.

Harry thought about it. It was the _unreasonably_ bit that gave him pause. “No, I don’t think I have,” he said at last. Some of his vigilance was undoubtedly warranted, so for the most part, he was fine in that regard. He’d only pulled his wand when startled once or twice in the last few months so mostly, he figured he was okay.

“What about depression?  How are you feeling in your self?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“Fine,” Harry said, nodding. He was perfectly confident in his abilities and devoted to his goals. The future would be better than the one he’d known before.

“What about your relationships?” Madam Pomfrey asked next. “Have your friendships changed significantly or your feelings for your family at all?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head slowly. As far as he could tell, he was still the same old Harry and while his friends were younger and sometimes he had trouble relating to them because of it, they were still important to him.

“You haven’t felt inexplicably that you just can’t trust them?” Snape pressed.

That gave Harry pause. “I guess there have been times, but I... I’m not sure that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, I think those were pretty rational,” he said. He was thinking especially of his decision to keep Hermione’s lycanthropy from Ron. Before, he would have instantly told Ron just because the three of them were friends and he would have felt bad keeping secrets. Not now. But he’d sat down and thought about that decision. He’d decided it. That wasn’t wrong, was it?

Madam Pomfrey looked uncertain. “Well, alright,” she said at last.

“Have you been feeling alone or alienated?” Snape asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. But then he immediately wished he hadn’t. He knew why he felt that way and it had far more to do with his trouble with time than it did with the war... or maybe that wasn’t fair. It was hard to separate that out. Part of the problem was undoubtedly that he had grown up years in just seconds but part of it also had to be that those years had been hard ones and he was a war veteran now and none of the other students, no one within his circle of friends, had any experiences like that.

“So for the most part, its the insomnia and the nightmares that are proving the most difficult practically and I’m also worried about you feeling alone too,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I think, and I’ll have to discuss this with you, Severus, that we should try to tackle these problems in two ways... first, whenever you have trouble sleeping for more than a couple of nights in a row, I want you to come to me or Professor Snape. Okay, Harry?”

“Sure,” Harry said. That seemed good, especially since now that he wasn’t at the Black House, he didn’t have ready access to potions anymore. A dose of Dreamless Sleep could be really helpful at ending a bout of insomnia or recurring nightmares.

“Second, I think I’d like you to meet regularly with each of us, just to talk about what’s going on with you, so we can check in. I don’t want you to feel alone, Harry, because we do care about you.”

Snape cleared his throat and looked away.

“Well, Minnie and I care about you and Severus may not want to own up to it, but at the very least, he feels responsible for you and wants you to get better.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “How often is ‘regularly’?”

“I think you should sit down and talk with each of us once per month, maybe an hour or two in the evening,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Any visits for other reasons, like sleeping potions or if you want to talk more than that, of course that’s fine too, but I think having something regular is important.”

Harry sighed. His schedule was fast filling up. But two hours twice a month wasn’t a lot. “Alright. It should be easy enough to see you, Madam Pomfrey, but Professor Snape may have to assign me unfair detentions or else people will notice.”

“Gladly, Mr Potter,” Snape said, smirking.

“Severus,” Madam Pomfrey scolded. “There’s no need to take such joy in unpleasant necessity.”

“Spoil my fun,” Snape muttered, standing up. “I will need to take some measurements of your height and weight,” he said, pulling a carpenter’s tape measure and a tiny bathroom scale out of his pocket. He drew his wand and enlarged the scale to normal size, took a moment spin the dial to zero it out, then set it on the floor before him. “If you would please, Mr Potter.”

Harry set his teacup down on the tea tray and slowly stood. With just a moment’s hesitation for vanity’s sake, because he knew he was a bit on the scrawny side, he walked around the table and stepped onto Snape’s scale.

“37.9 kilos,” Snape said. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and opened it. Inside, he had not a quill but a pencil which he used now to note Harry’s weight. Then he unspooled the tape measure, extending it to approximately two meters, then fixed the end under Harry’s heel and held the other end up to Harry’s head. “5 feet naught,” He said, then took the tape measure away and spooled it again before noting the measurement in his notebook.

Harry went back to his spot on the sofa.

“That is all the information I need for the moment. It may take some trial and error to find the proper potency but this will give me a place to start. As that is all I require of this meeting and I have an appointment with another student shortly, I believe I will take my leave,” Snape said.

“Thank you and goodnight, Severus,” Poppy said.

Snape nodded to her and saw himself out.

“He means Ms Granger, I expect,” Poppy said. "Well, I’ve kept you here long enough for tonight, I think. You probably don’t know your schedule just yet so let’s give you some time to sort out your study groups and figure out when you’re likely to have free time and then we’ll set a time for our meetings, alright?”

Harry nodded.

“You can use the connecting door to your common room then. It’ll save you the long walk,” she said with a smile.

Harry gave her a faint smile in return and they both stood so she could show him out.

As he walked through the connecting door into the Gryffindor Common Room, the usual chaos reigned. He scanned the room, looking for Hermione but didn’t spot her. It wasn’t surprising since she had to get the Wolfsbane Potion before sunset today at the latest and tomorrow was a full moon day. Someone was probably showing her whatever accommodations the school had made for her to spend the full moon nights. Harry saw Ron and the twins at a table in the corner playing Exploding Snap but he didn’t join them. Instead, he climbed to his dorm room and laid down on his bed with his Arithmancy book. It was an intimidating size and knowing he was a year behind already didn’t help.

He’d made it nearly all the way through the next chapter when Hermione found him. She looked troubled, her thoughts clearly taking her elsewhere as she sat on the edge of Harry’s bed.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked.

“Umhm,” Hermione hummed, nodding affirmatively. Then she sighed and turned to look at him. “Well, no,” she admitted. “I’ve just been to see Snape and take my potion and Dumbledore was there. He showed me the room they’ve set up. It’s just down the corridor and its warded well so it should be safe... not very comfortable though.”

“No?” Harry asked. He folded the corner of the page down in his textbook and set it aside.

Hermione smiled at him timidly. “You got me a dog bed and a water bowl. That was really sweet.”

“Kreacher did that,” Harry said. “I think they might have been Sirius’,” he admitted sheepishly.

Hermione smiled more broadly. “Still, it was nice. This is, well, not nice. It’s just a classroom and they haven’t even removed the desks. I mean, I guess they didn’t want to make any obvious change or someone might get suspicious, but, you know, it would have been nice.”

Harry nodded. “We could go down there and move some desks and transfig—”

“No!  You mustn’t,” Hermione interrupted with desperate urgency. “Dumbledore said you aren’t to be anywhere near it. He said I had to warn you that you’ll have to be in your dorm the whole night and you have to keep Ron here too. You can’t let him go poking around or else we’ll all be in really big trouble.”

Harry nodded. “Of course. I understand.” He didn’t want a repeat of the Marauders here. And it made sense for Hermione’s secret to stay secret that they should stay away and act as normally as possible. Then he realized Hermione was shaking. As gently as he could, he said, “It’s going to be okay, Hermione.”

She let out a strangled sob. Harry didn’t know what to do. He felt awkward and helpless. But Hermione quickly, through great effort, pulled herself together. “I just... it’s so overwhelming. I’ve been having nightmares of the attack again.”

“I didn’t know...” Harry began, but realized that was a foolish oversight on his part. “I should have asked.”

“No,” Hermione assured him. “You had so much going on yourself, I know that. I didn’t expect you to put aside what happened to you for silly, little me.”

“You’re not silly, Hermione. Nightmares are normal. Believe me; I’d know. Maybe you could get some Dreamless Sleep from Madam Pomfrey?”

Hermione shook her head. “There are a lot of potions I can’t take between drinking the Wolfsbane and the night of the full moon. It could make the Wolfsbane less effective. That’s why, now that I’m here, Snape wants me to wait until just before sunset on the day before the full moon to take it, so there’s only one day I can’t have potions in case I get hurt in class or something.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry said, feeling a bit useless. “I hate that this happened to you and that there’s nothing I can do.”

“You’re doing a lot, Harry,” Hermione insisted. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

Harry gave her a half-hearted smile but inside, he felt wretched. This hadn’t happened last time. He had made this happen when he’d chosen to do things a certain way.

“I’ll get through it,” Hermione told him bravely, but she was still very tense as she stood up to leave. “Good night, Harry.”

“Good night,” Harry replied. She left Harry to his own worries which persisted all through the next day. When Hermione finally excused herself an hour before moonrise looking drawn and vaguely ill, Harry already knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night. He and Ron stayed in the Common Room longer, finishing essays and then fooling around until curfew. It just managed to take Harry’s mind off Hermione for a little while, but as he lay down to bed, he hoped she was getting on alright.

When Harry and Ron went down to breakfast the next morning, they found Hermione there already. She seemed fine except she was moving a little too slowly and deliberately as she served herself several slices of gammon. Harry thought she was probably sore, but didn’t want to ask about it in the Great Hall.

“Good morning, Hermione,” he said as he sat down beside her. “Pass the Glamorgan sausages?”

“Morning, Harry, Ron,” she said with a tired smile. She picked up the serving plate of cheese sausages and passed it to Harry.

“Defense today,” Ron said excitedly, helping himself to rashers and some eggs.

Harry passed the sausage plate back to Hermione and started serving himself beans and toast as well.

“I’ll have some of that,” Hermione said, so Harry served her some too.

Ron finished serving himself and at last looked up from the food. He took one look at Hermione and asked, “Something wrong, Hermione?” Ron asked, concerned. “You don’t look well.”

“It’s nothing. I was up late last night reading, that’s all,” Hermione replied dismissively.

“You study too much,” Ron said.

“And you don’t study enough,” Hermione bantered back.

Hermione seemed to improve over breakfast. Being able to put that first full moon in a new place behind her must have helped immensely. By the time they left to go to their first class, it was life at Hogwarts as normal.

*****

_Jump onto the desk..._

_Jump onto the desk..._

_Yeah, right,_ Harry thought sarcastically.

_Jump onto the desk..._

_Not going to do it,_ he thought in a sing-song sort of way.

_Jump. NOW!_

It suddenly occurred to Harry, in between the echoing commands, that Moody was standing quite close to him, wand out in front of him, and his guard was down. He didn’t expect Harry to be any different from the other three students who’d utterly failed to disobey.

Harry moved quickly. His hand darted out and made a snatch for Moody’s wand.

But Moody was too quick. A lopsided grin stretched across his gnarled face. “That’s the way, lad!” he exclaimed. “That didn’t work on you for one second, did it?”

“No, sir,” Harry replied, grinning.

“And you recognized the advantage that gave you,” Moody said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, smiling proudly at what, from Moody, was really significant praise. He didn’t have to trust Moody to think the man was a fantastic professor.

“Well done. But let’s see that it wasn’t a fluke. Once more now,” Moody said.

Harry proved again that the Imperius Curse simply couldn’t persuade him to do anything he didn’t want to do.

Then Moody became curious. “Now how about a little experiment, lad?  If you chose to do the first thing you’re told, would the next order be harder to resist?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged. “Do you want me to try it?”

“Yes,” Moody said, raising his wand.

 _He had to be a Ravenclaw,_ Harry thought.

“Imperio!”

Harry was finally allowed to return to his seat once Moody realized that Harry had total control of himself and next it was Neville Longbottom’s turn. Like those who had gone before Harry, he wasn’t able to resist the orders and was made to sing and dance like Celestina Warbeck. Moody practiced with him several times, but Neville just became more and more demoralized with each failure.

“We’ll keep practicing until everyone gets it,” Moody told him. “If I have to give up my evenings to teach you, that’s what I’ll do.”

One at a time, everyone in the class had their turn. The Imperius Curse didn’t affect Hermione either, but that didn’t really surprise Harry when he thought about it, not after Moody had lectured them on strength of will. He doubted even a tough old auror like Moody could overpower the will of Hermione’s inner werewolf.

When they left class that day, Ron was riled up. “How did you two do that?” he wanted to know. Moody had made him sing every verse of the long-legged sailor song that little girls on playgrounds played clapping games to and Ron had been unable to resist.

“You have to be forceful, Ron,” Harry said. “Strength of will, Professor Moody said.”

“Yes. You have to be stubborn. I thought you’d be good at that, Ron,” Hermione teased.

Ron huffed in annoyance. “Yeah, well. Let’s get some dinner,” he said glumly.


	18. Happy Birthday, Hermione

Harry was nervous about his first appointment with Madam Pomfrey. If she wanted him to talk about his problems, she was going to be badly disappointed. There wasn’t much he could tell her and there was even less he wanted to tell her. Though to be fair, it wasn’t Madam Pomfrey that was the problem — he was reluctant to talk to anyone. But there was no question of skiving off, not when it would disappoint the strict school matron after she’d been quite good to him and was trying to help him. So he left Ron and Hermione working on Ron’s Divination essay and turned up in the Hospital Wing on time. There was a first year confined to a bed on the ward and Madam Pomfrey was just checking some paperwork at her bedside. She put it down when Harry came in.

“Come into my office, dear,” Madam Pomfrey said, smiling. “So how have you been, Harry?” she asked, taking a seat behind her desk and offering a chair opposite to Harry.

“Fine,” Harry said with a shrug as he sat.

“Any trouble sleeping?”

Harry shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good. Are your classes going well?”

Harry nodded. “Alright. And Hermione’s helping me with Arithmancy.”

“We had talked about your relationships with your friends,” she reminded him. “Is that okay too?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, Ron and Hermione are great.”

They talked for awhile about what was going on in Harry’s life at the moment. She was glad to hear that he hadn’t been too uncomfortable about the Defense lessons. They also talked about Hermione.

“I know you worry about her. You looked after her this summer.”

Harry nodded. “It’s hard, not being able to do anything now. I know I have to stay away, but it just feels like I should be doing something else.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded.

“And Dumbledore expects me to keep Ron from finding out. Hermione told me he said so.” Harry sighed.

Madam Pomfrey’s brow furrowed. “I doubt that, Harry. I expect he only meant you’re not to lead Mr Weasley into it. He wouldn’t have meant he’d blame you if Mr Weasley found out some other way.”

Harry gave her a skeptical look. “I know what he meant. It _would_ be my fault. Or I’d get in trouble for it — that’s the same thing.”

“Firstly, no it’s not the same thing. And second, you can’t be responsible for other people, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey said.

Harry gave her a look like she’d just sprouted a second head.

“What’s that look for?” she asked, confused.

Harry floundered for something to say. She couldn’t really not know, could she?

Madam Pomfrey seemed uncertain. “I don’t think I understand, Harry.”

“I mean, I know Hermione’s secret and I know Ron’s not supposed to find out and Ron’s my friend so if he finds out, it’ll be because I did something wrong,” Harry said.

“Harry, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?” Harry snapped. “Why not?” He was getting frustrated.

“Just because Ron’s your friend?  Do you know everything he does?  Does he have to get permission from you to do anything?”

Harry tried to interrupt angrily. He wasn’t anyone’s master like that.

But Poppy continued. “Of course not. He makes his own decisions and you’re not responsible for it.”

“That’s not what a meant,” Harry said. “I know I can’t tell him what to do.”

“Good. Then you know you can’t be responsible for—”

“But that’s not right,” Harry snapped. “People say that, but it’s not true. They still act like its my fault.”

“When?  We’re not talking about Ron anymore, are we?”

Harry tensed up. “What are we talking about then?” he asked. He knew he couldn’t talk about a lot of things.

“I won’t know until you tell me,” she replied a little helplessly.

Harry immediately knew he wasn’t going to answer that, so he backtracked. “You don’t believe me. I know what Dumbledore meant,” Harry insisted.

“You can’t, Harry. Ms Granger could have misunderstood, she could have used the wrong words. The Headmaster could have used the wrong words. But he wouldn’t have meant it like that, Harry. No one would.”

“I know what Dumbledore meant. I didn’t have to be there. I know what’s expected of me,” Harry said angrily.

“I don’t understand, Harry?  I’m sorry. This doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Why not?” Harry said, leaping out of his chair to pace angrily. “Why the hell not? !  It makes perfect sense to me!”

“Okay, calm down, Harry and please sit down,” Poppy said, though she was very tense.

“No. I don’t want to do this anymore,” Harry said, abruptly.

“Harry... take a few minutes and try to come up with words to explain it to me... or... tell me a story... or, I don’t know, Harry. Take some time and I’m going to check on Ms Graham,” she said.

“I don’t—”

“Try,” she ordered, standing and leaving the office.

Harry watched her walk up the ward, then turned to pace some more but scarcely thirty seconds later, the door to Madam Pomfrey’s chambers rattled as someone knocked and then opened the door. “Poppy?” Professor McGonagall said, coming in. “Oh, hello, Mr Potter. I didn’t realize you’d still be here. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Harry said, scowling. “Madam Pomfrey said I had to think and went to check on her other patient.”

“Difficult task, is it, thinking?” Professor McGonagall asked, poking gentle fun. “You don’t look half pleased about it.”

“She said I have to explain something that should be obvious and I don’t know why it’s not,” Harry grumbled.

“What is it?” McGonagall asked kindly. “I don’t need the details, just general terms, if you will. Perhaps I can help.”

“She says that... that... that if I know something might happen and that it would be bad if it did— no, that’s not right,” Harry tried. “It’s if I know someone could do something bad and I don’t do anything to stop it, then it’s not my fault if it happ— This is stupid. She says if Ron finds out about Hermione, it’s not my fault unless I tell him, or show him, or whatever. But that’s daft. I know he can’t find out, I know what kind of trouble he gets up to, if he’s going to do something then it would probably involve me, so if he finds out, of course Dumbledore’s right to hold me accountable.” Harry took a deep breath at the end of that, relieved to finally get it out right, in a way that made some sense.

Professor McGonagall took a long time before at last she said, “This is about your relatives, isn’t it?” She came around the desk to sit beside Harry who was speechless. “I see it sometimes, not often, thankfully, but sometimes when I go to speak to muggleborns. Most families figure out that strange things happen around their child and they want it to stop so they punish the child every time they do accidental magic. Sometimes they aren’t very good at recognizing what is magic and what isn’t and the child gets blamed for all sorts of things, things that other people do, things that happen by chance, all of it. Sometimes the child hasn’t figured out that they have magic or that their family suspects it and so they don’t understand why they get blamed for anything, much less everything. The ones that want to be good children, the ones like you, they can start to believe it, believe that every bad thing that happens around them is because they did something wrong or didn’t do something right. You can’t blame yourself for everything, Mr Potter. Then your relatives win.”

Harry scowled. “Okay, I understand that, and maybe that’s part of it and maybe it’s not, but this isn’t just me. Hermione told me Dumbledore would blame me if Ron found out her secret. That’s not the Dursleys’ fault. It’s real, not in my head. Madam Pomfrey thinks its wrong. I don’t.”

“I wasn’t present to hear what the Headmaster may have said, but I know the Headmaster is a very forgiving person who is far more likely to pardon those who ought to be held accountable than to punish those who shouldn’t.”

Harry knew that had been true when Sirius had tried to get Snape bitten, but Sirius hadn’t been the Boy Who Lived. “But this is different,” he tried to explain. “I know enough that it makes sense that I should be able to stop Ron from finding out. Even if I can’t keep Ron from poking around if he notices Hermione missing one too many times, I can at least lead him off on the wrong track or I can warn Hermione and she can make something up or change which room she’s staying in or something. If Ron finds out, it will be because I dropped the ball, you see.”

“That’s an awful lot of responsibility to take on your young shoulders, Mr Potter. If Mr Weasley finds out with no encouragement and no hints from yourself, it will be because he’s gone poking around where he has no business being despite his knowing better.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, thinking of the terrible moment he’d opened the snitch in the forest that night.

“You shouldn’t have,” Professor McGonagall said sternly. “You mustn’t take this upon yourself, Potter. It will only bring you grief to blame yourself for things you have little or no control over.”

“I... I don’t think I know how not to,” Harry said quietly.

“You focus on yourself, on your own actions and you let other people make their own choices and answer for the consequences of those choices themselves,” she replied.

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Harry said. He had special knowledge, knowledge from the future. He could prevent things from happening — or at least he ought to be able to. And if he did the wrong thing and it turned out worse than before, he would blame himself and anyone who knew he had that information, they would blame him too because what good was time travel if you didn’t make things better?

“At the very least, it is a place to begin,” McGonagall replied.

“Give it a try, Harry,” a voice said.

Harry startled badly from his thoughts and spun, his heart in his throat and his hand halfway to his wand pocket before he realized it was Madam Pomfrey in the doorway. “Sorry,” he said, wincing and letting his hand fall back limply to his side. “I didn’t realize you’d come up behind me.”

“It’s my fault, love. I’m really sorry. I should have known not to sneak up on you,” she said apologetically.

“Can I just have a word with you, Madam Pomfrey, then I’ll let you get back to Mr Potter, here,” Professor McGonagall said.

Madam Pomfrey nodded and she and McGonagall stepped just outside the office.

Quietly, McGonagall said, “I’ve had to give the Ron, Fred and George Weasley detentions. I caught them trading hexes with some Slytherins. I’ve left Severus to deal with his house but I have so much paperwork that I was hoping you could take their detentions. I told them one of us would be in touch about the date and time, but...”

“Of course, Minnie. Any time. There’s always dirty work to do around here and I know how hard you work to be professor and Head of Gryffindor and Deputy Headmistress. Some days I’d never see you if I let you do detentions on top of everything else,” Madam Pomfrey said, smiling fondly and, stepping closer, she reached out to stroke Professor McGonagall’s arm lovingly.

But McGonagall shrugged off the contact, glancing Harry’s way.

“It’s just Harry, Minnie. He already knows,” Madam Pomfrey said, sounding a little irritated.

“He’s still a student, Poppy, and school is in session,” McGonagall scolded.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and took a step back, putting more distance between them than there had been before. Professor McGonagall nodded stiffly and both women reentered the office.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said ashamedly.

“Don’t you dare,” Professor McGonagall said. “We just had this discussion, Mr Potter. I decide when to bend the rules of propriety and that decision has nothing to do with you.”

“But if I wasn’t here—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey said, not unkindly. “I should have known better. There are strict rules about staff conducting our personal lives out of the eyes of the students. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Okay,” Harry said, feeling stupid. Of course he should have realized that.

“Let’s call it a night, Harry. Professor Snape will probably assign you detention for no reason at all in about two weeks so he can check in with you.”

Harry nodded, feeling relief that this was over and, if he was honest, also because he’d be seeing Snape next and he thought Snape might be able to help without having to talk about school and Harry’s friends. Maybe they could do something to stop the nightmares and help him sleep. That would be really good. He said good night to Madam Pomfrey and made his way back to Gryffindor Tower. It disappointed him that they hadn’t talked about anything he should be doing to help himself get better. He hoped Snape would know more though and he was still sort of looking forward to the session with Snape in a couple of weeks. Maybe he’d use the opportunity to talk to Snape about the Black House too. Harry wanted Snape to know he trusted him and he wanted to do something for Snape too. Harry made it back to Gryffindor Tower just before curfew. He had an essay to write, but it could wait. He was tired and he didn’t want to do any more thinking.

*****

Hermione’s birthday fell on a new moon. Ron had his detention with Madam Pomfrey that night so it was just Harry and Hermione who snuck out under the Invisibility Cloak just after dark to sit on the parapet along the northwest wall-walk.

Harry cast Muffliato as soon as the door shut behind them. Even this high up, he felt exposed and he wasn’t sure how far voices would carry on such a still night.

“What spell was that?” Hermione asked.

“Hmm, what?” Harry asked. “Oh, Muffliato?  It’s an anti-eavesdropping spell.”

“I’ve never heard of it. What book’s it from?” Hermione asked curiously.

Harry thought but came up blank. “I don’t remember,” he said at last, shrugging.

Hermione pulled him over to the wall. They had to sit very close together to both fit under the cloak.

“I have something for you,” Harry said, pulling a small wrapped present from his pocket.

Her face lit up as she took the package and eagerly unwrapped it.

“A penknife?”

“It seems to do a few other things too. It opens locks and unties knots,” Harry said, a bit sheepishly. He’d found it among Sirius’ things when he’d gone looking for technomancy books and had kept it. It hadn’t been until later that he’d decided he wanted Hermione to have it. “Hermione — it’s for getting out of trouble, not into it, okay?”

Hermione looked hurt by his warning, but forced a smile and examined the little penknife again, then tucked it into her pocket and said, “Thank you, Harry.”

She looked up at the sky again and sighed.

“Are you sure you want to be up here,” Harry asked, eying the dark circle of the moon skeptically.

“Yes. There’s no moon tonight. Isn’t it wonderful?” she said, smiling despite unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

Silence stretched between them. Harry fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Are you really okay, Hermione?”

“I’m trying to be brave,” she said. “Sometimes I think it works. Don’t you?”

Harry smiled at her. “Yeah. I think you’re doing well, but it’s hard to tell sometimes. And the changes sound so horrible.”

“I’m adjusting to the moons,” she said. “That’s not the hard part.”

“What is?  I mean...”

“The scarring’s bad and keeping Lavender and Parvati from noticing, that’s been tough. Madam Pomfrey did her best, but werewolf wounds are hard to heal and I had so many. She saved my hands and my face, but there wasn’t much she could do about my chest.”

“Your chest?”

“I was knocked down and the wolf st-stood on me and b-bit my head and neck,” she said with difficulty. “The bite wounds healed, but the claw-marks didn’t. Most of my b-breasts are gone... torn up.”

“You, erm, don’t look, erm... flat?” Harry stammered.

Hermione blushed. “They’re falsies.”

“Oh. Fooled me. Not that I, you know... erm... I mean, I couldn’t help but notice... right?”

Hermione smiled a little. “You’re a great friend, Harry. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She inched even closer, pressing against him, looked into his eyes and drew closer still. Then she closed the remaining distance, pressing their lips together, kissing him sweetly.

“Hermione, no,” Harry said, pulling away.

Hermione hurriedly slid away as far as the cloak would allow and buried her face in his hands. “I’m sorry. Don’t be angry, please. I just thought—”

“I’m not angry, I just don’t think of you like that. You’re like my little sister, Hermione,” Harry said.

“I’m older than you!” Hermione wailed, hurt.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, wincing.

“My life is ruined. No boy will want me. I’ll never get a job. I’ll never be good enough to make up for being a werewolf!”

“Don’t say that, Hermione. Of course you will. You’re brilliant. You can do amazing technomancy and you’re just a fourth year. And I’m sure there are boys who will love you anyway.”

“You don’t!” she snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Harry sighed helplessly.

Hermione cried wracking sobs and Harry sat there looking foolish, unsure what to do.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. He tried to put an arm around her shoulder but she didn’t let him. She threw the cloak off her and stormed off.

“Hermione, wait!” Harry called, hurrying after her. He got her to wait and go back to the Tower with him under the cloak, but she didn’t say another word to him, not even when they were back in the Gryffindor Common Room and he said goodnight as she disappeared up the stairs to her dorm.

*****

Harry hadn’t known for certain whether the detention Snape gave him several days later would be a real detention or cover for a talk about his problems until he turned up and was told to sit down across the desk from Snape instead of to go into the classroom and clean a row of filthy cauldrons. He was glad for it though. He hoped Snape would be able to help him. The meeting with Madam Pomfrey had left him feeling a little disappointed.

“I wish to know what your sleep has been like in the last month,” Snape began.

Harry shrugged. “A couple of nights I haven’t slept well, but its been better this month than over the summer.”

“So you feel safe at Hogwarts?” Snape questioned evenly.

Harry scowled. “I think it’s more that I’m keeping busy with class and everything.”

Snape nodded. “Have you had any panic attacks in the last month?”

“No,” Harry said.

“Is there anything else troubling you?  Have you experienced any of the other symptoms we discussed before?”

Harry couldn’t remember all the things Snape had asked about, but there was one thing on his mind. “Am I going to get better?  It didn’t seem like Madam Pomfrey knew how to help.”

Snape scowled. “Madam Pomfrey is trying to provide you with the support system that you need while you process your trauma. I can provide the medication to relieve your symptoms whenever they impinge upon your ability to do your schoolwork and live a normal life but that is not a lasting solution. That is why you are required to meet with both of us regularly.”

“Can’t you help me with both?  I mean, Madam Pomfrey means well, but... talking with her is difficult.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Snape drawled.

“Yeah, yeah, you probably think I struggle to walk and talk at the same time,” Harry grumbled.

Snape ignored him. “The point is, Mr Potter, that you require both of services. Having one without the other will not help.”

“Alright,” Harry said with a sigh.

“You are impatient,” Snape said. “Yet you’ve had a good month, by your own account.”

“That’s true,” Harry acknowledged.

“Are you talking about what happened with Madam Pomfrey?”

Harry’s brows came together. “You mean, the dementor attack?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

Harry shrugged. “Not really.”

Snape scowled. “You must. It is important to allow you to process what happened.”

“I know what happened,” Harry grumbled.

“Then tell me. In detail,” Snape said.

Harry hesitated. “I sent Hermione back to the castle with you and Ron, I heard Sirius fighting so I chased after him, I thought I would be able to do a Patronus Charm and it would deal with the dementors while I got Sirius to safety but it didn’t work and the dementors made me pass out. I woke up when the one dropped me. I wasn’t conscious when it... Kissed me.”

“What happened when you woke up?” Snape asked.

Harry shrugged. “Some of them were scared when I woke up, but the one picked me up again and was about to Kiss me a second time when Madam Pomfrey’s and Professor McGonagall’s patroni arrived and chased them all away.”

Snape waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, Snape asked, “Can you tell me more about the moment you realized you couldn’t do the Patronus Charm?”

Harry gulped involuntarily. “What do you want to know?” he asked warily.

Snape shrugged and said, “Whatever you think is important.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, then fell uncomfortably silent.

“What were you thinking?” Snape asked.

Harry snorted. “That I’m a bloody idiot for thinking I could take on dozens of dementors like that.”

“And?” Snape prompted.

Harry hesitated. “And... that I should have had an escape plan, I guess. Charging right into the pack of them was... a bad idea.”

Snape let the silence stretch, perhaps hoping Harry would continue just to fill it, but Harry stubbornly refused so Snape asked, “What would you have done differently, if you could do it again?”

Harry didn’t notice as he tensed up at the question. “I don’t want to think about that,” he said stiffly. This had already been his second chance. He knew he’d screwed it up and worrying over what he should have done wasn’t going to help. If just hurt. Second chances were supposed to go better than the first. Hindsight was supposed to help. But it hadn’t. And that was no one’s fault but his own.

Snape paused before he said anything. “Tell me something you did right that night then.”

Harry looked at him oddly. “You don’t think I do anything right,” he said warily.

Snape flapped a hand dismissively. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you and what you think.”

“What, so you can tell me I’m stupid, even when I think I’m not?”

Snape crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared. “Believe it or not, no. I ask because its important. You sent Granger into the castle, yes?  That was good. It wasn’t perfect because you should have come in too, but you did make sure the three of us were safe and that Granger could get help. That much was right, Potter.”

“Oh,” Harry said quietly.

“Now tell me something else.”

“I didn’t use the Time Turner that night,” Harry said. “I could have but I didn’t. I just wish Hermione hadn’t either.”

“You can’t control Granger. You were right not to go. Do you understand why I’m making you talk about this?” Snape asked.

Harry shook his head.

“Think about it. Have an answer for me next month. I have a real detention to supervise tonight so we’re done for now,” Snape said abruptly. He leaned back in his chair and unfolded his arms. He watched Harry expectantly. “Well?  Go.”

Harry stood and put his bag on his shoulder, then hesitated. He’d been thinking about it and now he knew he wanted to do it. Harry bit his lip nervously, then reached into his bag and took out a slip of parchment. “I just... wanted you to have that," Harry said with a shrug, handing it across the desk.

Snape took the scrap of parchment, unfolded it and read. His brows furrowed and he looked back up at Harry. “What is this, Potter?”

“The address to a safe house, Professor,” Harry said solemnly.

Snape scowled at him across the desk. “I don’t understand,” he said after a moment.

“Professor Dumbledore thinks there’s a war coming, doesn’t he?  If he’s right, I don’t want to be caught off guard. So I’m making sure that I have someplace safe for myself and for the people I care about.”

“Surely you don’t count me—” Snape said incredulously.

“Of course I do,” Harry interrupted. “You’ve saved my life more than once, you watch out for me, you help me when I’m at my weakest, and you don’t bullshit me. You care about me as a person — I’m not some horrible freak to you, I’m not a savior or a hero in training.” He stopped himself abruptly. He could have gone on but he was getting embarrassingly close to mushiness that Snape surely wouldn’t appreciate.

Snape stared. And he stared some more. He seemed to be completely at a loss for how to react. But then Snape’s jaw clenched.

“This is inappropriate, Mr Potter,” Snape said through grit teeth. “You have mistaken what simple duty of care I owe you as your professor—”

“No,” Harry interrupted. “Don’t. There’ve been times when I thought you hated me, but you’ve still done more for me than the Dursleys ever did.”

“That is a sad commentary on your family, Potter,” Snape replied uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders before he continued more confidently. “I can’t accept this.” Snape took out his wand and incinerated the parchment note.

“You already have,” Harry said quietly. Snape had read it and knew the Secret now. He couldn’t unread it.

Snape appeared flustered.

Harry chewed on his lower lip uncertainly, then said, “Look, it’s not like I’m saying you should move in — I just want you to know that if you ever need somewhere secure, somewhere there’s always a house elf and a stock of medicinal potions, my house is available to you. I feel that I owe you that consideration, at least. It’s up to you whether you choose to use it or not.”

Snape stared at him some more.

The silence stretched, growing uncomfortable until Harry shrugged. “That’s all. I guess I’ll go now.” He lingered for a half a moment longer and then turned and strode toward the door. He walked with a bounce in his step as he headed upstairs, very different than when he’d left Madam Pomfrey two weeks before. And he got out early which was nice.

He decided to head for the library. There was still time before curfew and he had three paragraphs on the theory of Summoning Charms due in Charms class the day after tomorrow that he should work on. He also had to read the first chapter on basic equations in his Arithmancy text. He was a little behind in his Arithmancy studies with Hermione because the full moon had interrupted their tutoring schedule but if he could get through the chapter tonight, they might be able to catch up to Hermione’s color-coded calendar by the end of the week.


	19. The Delegations Arrive

When the Gryffindors went down to lunch on a Wednesday late in October, a notice had been posted in the Entrance Hall. The representatives from the two other schools competing in the tournament were due to arrive a week from Friday and then there would be an assembly and two feasts to start off the tournament. News rapidly spread all through the school. Rumors circulated about who wanted to enter the Tournament, what the tasks would be, and what the delegations from the other schools would be like. While the students seemed largely excited, Harry was growing increasingly worried. He knew that soon, someone who wished him harm would be hanging around waiting to submit his name to the tournament.

He wished again that he had the Marauder’s Map back. But what could do?  He’d written to Lupin twice already to apologize and he still hadn’t heard anything. There was only one thing left he could try — writing to Lupin with the truth about what had happened to Hermione. But as badly as Harry needed to get the map back, he was acutely aware that Hermione would treat it as a serious betrayal and he wasn’t sure he could do that to her. And if he lost Hermione, Harry knew he would feel very lonely. So there was nothing he could do, nothing but silently bear his fears as best as he could.

But he wasn’t handling them well. He begged off his meeting with Poppy to try to get to bed early even though their meeting had already been pushed back several days because all the staff were rushed off their feet getting the school ready for the new arrivals. Monday night, he barely slept. Most of the night, he just tossed and turned, and what sleep he did get was the sort where his eyes were closed but his ears were still pealed and his brain was still on high alert. For all the good it did him, he might as well not have slept. That morning, in History of Magic, with Ron and Hermione attentive around him, he didn’t hesitate to catch a quick nap but it helped only a little and when he woke up, Ron and Seamus were trying to smother giggles and Hermione was scowling at them.

“What?” Harry asked groggily, wiping sleep from his face. His hands came away black and his eyes narrowed. “Ron?”

“He drew a mustache on your face,” Hermione told him, reaching into her bag for a handkerchief. “Here, I’ll get it off.”

Harry shook his head. “Nah, just give me a mirror,” Harry said eagerly.

Ron’s laughter finally exploded. Harry grinned at his friend’s stupid antics.

“Here,” Parvati passed him a hand mirror from across the classroom. Up front, Binns continued lecturing without noticing that half the class was completely distracted now.

Harry looked in the mirror. There was a thin swirling line on his upper lip like a silly mustache. The right side was a little smudged where Harry had wiped his face before the ink had properly dried.

“I’m sure it will come right off,” Hermione said.

“Nah, leave it!” Seamus said, laughing. “It’s fetching, isn’t it Lavender?” he teased.

Hermione frowned. “It looks like you fell asleep in class and Ron took advantage.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Hermione,” Harry said, smiling good-naturedly.

As they left History of Magic, Harry still wearing the ink mustache, they passed Filch scrubbing the floor. While the students happily looked forward to the arrival of the other schools, the staff were getting more and more tense. Any student who so much as tracked a little mud into the Entrance Hall found themselves positively set upon by Filch who, with the help of the house elves, had been busily giving the castle a thorough sprucing up.

When Harry turned up at lunch with his ink mustache, Professor McGonagall was having none of it. She barked a spell and it vanished, then she snapped, “Five points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter!  And if I see it again once the delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrive, it will be a detention too!”

By the time Harry got to McGonagall’s class on Thursday, his sleep loss was nearing critical. He had real trouble focusing on his classwork when they were given time to practice Switching Spells. At some point, Harry found himself just staring at Neville, whom Harry was sitting next to. Neville seemed to have the incantation and the wand movement right, but still wasn’t getting good results. Harry continued to stare. The longer the spell didn’t work, the more Neville seemed to think it was only a matter of time before something catastrophic happened. He was flinching away from his wand each time he cast. And then Harry’s tired mind noticed something he thought was strange.

“Hey, Neville,” Harry muttered, interrupting Neville’s practice. “Is that a new wand?” He felt like there was something different about it. It was just a niggling little feeling that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Umm, no,” Neville replied, a little confused. “Same one I’ve always had. Remember, it was my dad’s.”

“Oh,” Harry said, his brows wrinkling with the effort of forcing his sleep-deprived mind to recall the details. “But I thought, you know, the wand chooses the wizard.”

“What?” Neville said confusedly. “Harry, I think you need to get more sleep. You’re not making sense.”

“No, no, no,” Harry mumbled. “I’m sure that’s what Ollivander said.”

“Well I wouldn’t know about that,” Neville said, shrugging. “Gran believes in family legacy.”

“Maybe you should talk to Ollivander,” Harry said tiredly. “A wand that—”

“Mr Potter, Mr Longbottom, back to work!” Professor McGonagall snapped.

Harry sagged and turned back to his practice with a dull sigh and forced himself to concentrate on switching the spines of the cactus for the pins on a pincushion until the end of the period.

“Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall called him aside as the rest of the class filed out. “And Ms Granger too, if you would.”

Harry shuffled up to her desk. Hermione hovered nearby, watching him worriedly.

“You look awful, Harry. Ms Granger, I’m going to give you a note for Professor Moody. Mr Potter is clearly unwell and I’m sending him to bed.”

She quickly scratched out the promised note. “Now run along to class, Ms Granger. It wouldn’t do for you to be late.”

Hermione nodded, sent one last concerned look Harry’s way, and left.

“Are you having trouble sleeping again?” McGonagall asked gently.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied tonelessly. “I mean, I sleep, but it doesn’t do any good. I’m even more tired when I wake up than when I went to bed.”

“Take a nap this afternoon and see if you can’t get a good night sleep tonight too. You sure look like you need it. If you still look this terrible tomorrow when the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive, I will be most upset.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll try.” So with McGonagall’s blessing, Harry went back to his dorm room and, without so much as taking off his shoes, fell into his bed. He closed his eyes and wondered if he was tired enough yet to overcome his worries that surely whoever was intending to enter him in the Triwizard Tournament would be lurking just outside the castle, waiting for night to sneak in and lie in wait. The delegations from the other schools would arrive tomorrow and there was a Welcoming Feast planned for them, but the monthly calender posted on the notice board also warned of a feast the following day and Harry felt certain that that would be when the champions were announced. That meant, at least to his mind, that the feast tomorrow would likely be the start of the submission period... but Harry was exhausted and it was still light out and the Gryffindor sixth years were presently making just enough noise down in the common room to be reassuring without actually keeping Harry up... so Harry drifted off.

Not that it did any good. And it only got worse. By the morning the delegations from the other schools were due to arrive, Harry was so far beyond tired, he’d become nonsensical, giggling at the littlest things and being unable to stop. Hermione gave him a vial of Pepper Up left over from what Madam Pomfrey had given her after the last full moon and made sure he drank it before they left their dorms for the assembly. As soon as the smoke dissipated, he felt a little better.

“Please, go to Madam Pomfrey tonight, Harry. This can’t continue,” Hermione pleaded as they joined the procession of Gryffindors headed down towards the Entrance Hall.

“I know,” Harry replied.

“It’s pure stubbornness to let it go on for this long,” Hermione continued.

“I know,” he answered again.

“You need your sleep, Harry.”

“Alright!  I’ll go, okay?  As soon as the feast is over,” Harry snapped.

“Good,” Hermione said.

Professors filed up and down the rows of students, making sure everyone was entirely presentable and giving last minute instruction on proper behavior and not embarrassing their fine school. When they were, in most cases, satisfied, and in some, merely resigned, the Heads of House lead their students out the front doors and lined them up in front of the castle. The sun was already disappearing beneath the tree line of the Forbidden Forest, sending the sky into violent pinks and oranges overhead.

“Nearly 6,” Ron said, checking his watch. “How do you reckon they’re coming?  The train?  A portkey?” Ron suggested. “Or they could apparate — maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from.”

Hermione huffed in annoyance. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ron?  You can’t apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds!”

“Fine,” Ron said haughtily, “but what about a portkey, hmm?”

“Well, according to _Hogwarts, A History_ , only the Headmaster of Hogwarts can make a portkey into Hogwarts, and it has to be a very particular kind with each individual its to carry authorized specifically, otherwise, the school could be vulnerable if someone dangerous got their hands on a portkey meant for someone else. It would only work if the other schools are bringing a very small number of students and staff. _Achievements in Magical Transportation of the Twentieth Century_ says that sort of portkey would be very difficult to make for even half a dozen people,” Hermione lectured.

“So something else then,” Ron summarized impatiently. “Any ideas, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “Nope.” The Pepper Up had helped with the worst of his exhaustion, but his thinking was still fuzzy and he wasn’t really listening.

And then, from the front steps where the teachers were standing, Dumbledore exclaimed, “Aha!  Unless I’m much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches.”

It took the gathered students some time to sort out where to look, and then there was quite a lively debate about what the growing dot in the sky over the Forbidden Forest could be.

As it turned out, Beauxbatons’ students and staff were arriving in an utterly enormous powder-blue flying carriage drawn by twelve palomino winged horses the size of elephants. The carriage landed a bit roughly, then the door opened and out stepped the headmistress of Beauxbatons, followed closely by roughly a dozen boys and girls in pale blue uniforms.

The headmistress couldn’t have looked more different from Dumbledore. She wore black satin and opals and kept her hair in a tidy bun. Her great height added to her no-nonsense appearance and her expression as she surveyed the assembled crowd was critical. But as Dumbledore started a round of applause, she gave a gracious smile and climbed the steps to greet Dumbledore as an equal. Even though she stood three steps down and Dumbledore was not short himself, she still towered a head above him. Suddenly the gasps from the other students when she’d appeared made more sense. They’d been surprised, though Harry thought that was a bit strange. They had to be used to Hagrid by now and he was roughly the same height, though perhaps they’d simply not expected it of the Headmistress of one of Europe’s premier schools of magic.

Behind Madame Maxime, the Beauxbatons students stood shivering and looking up at the gray stone front of the castle with some apprehension. Harry scanned the row, hoping he would recognize one more than the others. He could not remember who the Beauxbatons champion would be and he’d failed to write it down. One by one, he searched their faces (though a couple were so bundled up in scarves, mufflers, and shawls that it was impossible to see a face), but none of them sparked a flicker of any familiarity. It seemed he would have to wait and find out like everyone else. And then the whole line of them was running up the steps and disappearing inside.

“Do you think he meant the skwerts?  Maybe they’ve escaped,” Ron was saying.

“Oh, don’t say that!” Hermione moaned. “Imagine that lot loose on the grounds!”

“What?” Harry said, looking confusedly between them.

“Dumbledore just told their Headmistress that some creatures Hagrid’s been taking care of are causing him problems — its why he’s not here,” Hermione explained. “Ron suggested he it might have been the skwerts.”

Harry scowled. “I can’t believe he’s been allowed to keep those things.”

“It seems to me that if nothing has come from all the complaining our class has done, maybe Hagrid was given special permission to breed something no one has seen before to use in the Tournament,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

Harry groaned, his eyes falling shut with dread.

“Hey, do you hear that?” Parvati asked quite loudly. All up and down the lines of students, others were asking their neighbors the same question. Harry and his friends fell silent and listened. There was a strange rumbly, wet, sucking noise.

“The lake!” yelled Lee Jordan, pointing emphatically.

Suddenly, the surface of the lake started to bubble, waves washed over the muddy banks and crashed into the boulders around the lake’s edge. Then a black pole broke the roiling surface, rising slowly. And then Harry saw the crow’s nest.

At once, he said, “It’s a mast,” while Hermione said, “It’s a ship!”

Slowly, gracefully, the ship rose out of the water. It caught the fading sunlight as it pitched and rolled, at bobbing up onto the surface and beginning a gentle slide towards the deepest part of the shore. It glided to within a few meters of the sheer rock edge on the castle side of the lake before dropping the anchor. Its splash echoed and was followed closely by the thud of a gangway being levitated into place between the ship and a section of the cliffs nearly level with the ship’s deck. It took another few moments before the shapes of people could be seen crossing the gangway and coming their way. As they neared, they became first masses covered in thick fur cloaks, then proper people distinguishable from one another at last.

At the head of the line was a gray-haired man wearing a fur cloak of a pale, sleek silver.

“Dumbledore!” he called heartily as he approached the stairs. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

Between the tone, the words, and the way he shook Dumbledore’s hand with both of his own, Durmstrang’s headmaster could just seem to be cut from the same cloth as Dumbledore, but only for a moment. He looked up at the castle, said some sort of kind words, and smiled, but the smile noticeably did not reach his eyes. Already, it was clear that Karkaroff, as Dumbledore had called him, was no master at false flattery. Harry had a moment to wonder if that made him more honest or just a more obvious manipulator.

And then Ron gasped and grabbed his arm. “Harry — it’s Krum!”

As the Hogwarts students followed the Durmstrang students inside, the fuss about Krum quickly reached ridiculous levels. Lee Jordan was jumping up and down, trying to get a better look at the back of Krum’s head. Some sixth year girls, at a loss for quills, were talking amongst themselves about whether they thought Krum might autograph their hats in lipstick. Even Ron was babbling excitedly about how Krum was the best seeker in the world and how he couldn’t believe Krum was still in school. Hermione gave the girls fighting over the lipstick a disdainful look. “Honestly, he’s just a Quidditch player,” she muttered.

Ron gasped at her incredulously. “Just a Quidditch player!?  Just a Quidditch player?!”

They entered the Great Hall which had been decked out in new banners in the house colors and sporting the Hogwarts crest. They passed the Durmstrang group where they stood off to one side, looking over the tables, unsure of what to do now that their Headmaster had left them to stand beside Dumbledore just outside the doors to the Great Hall. The Beauxbatons students had already taken seats at the Ravenclaw table and were looking clearly both cold and unimpressed.

“Oh, its not that cold,” Hermione said scowling at them as she took a seat at the Gryffindor table.

Ron took a seat opposite them, where he could watch the Krum.

“No, Neville, move over. Leave a space!” Ron snapped when Neville tried to join them.

“Oh, sorry,” Neville muttered, looking hurt.

“No!” Ron moaned suddenly, looking over at Krum again.

“What?” Harry asked him confusedly.

“They’re sitting at the Slytherin table,” Ron whined bitterly. “Malfoy’s _talking_ to him!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome to join us, Neville. Ignore Ron. He’s just embarrassing himself,” Hermione apologized to Neville.

Neville timidly reclaimed the empty space.

“I bet Krum can see right through him,” Ron was saying, still glaring at Malfoy. “Bet he gets lots of people fawning all over him. Where d’you reckon they’re going to sleep?  We could offer him space in our dormitory. He could have my bed — I wouldn’t mind sleeping on a camp bed.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“And you said I was bad around Lockhart,” Hermione said pointedly.

Ron wasn’t listening. He was watching the Durmstrang students as they took off their fur cloaks and settled in at the Slytherin table. Unlike the Beauxbatons students, the Durmstrang group seemed to like the Great Hall.

“What’s Filch doing?” Neville asked. He was looking at the High Table, where Mr Filch was adding four chairs to the table.

“I guess we’re still waiting on someone,” Hermione said.

When the chairs were in place, the staff, lead by Dumbledore, Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime entered the Hall. Immediately, all the Beauxbatons students leapt to their feet and stood respectfully, without regard for the laughter of a few of the Hogwarts students, until their Headmistress had taken her seat at Dumbledore’s left hand. Once the Beauxbatons students had retaken their seats, Dumbledore made a brief speech welcoming their guests to Hogwarts. Though two of the chairs at the staff table were still vacant, Dumbledore waved his hand and a magnificent array of food appeared on the tables.

“What’s this?” Ron asked, scrunching his nose up at a dish of some sort of shellfish stew sitting next to a steak and kidney pie.

“Bouillabaisse,” Hermione replied.

“Bless you,” Ron said.

“It’s French,” Hermione said patiently. “I had it on holiday, summer before last. It’s very nice.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ron said, helping himself to some black pudding instead. “Oh, Hagrid’s back.”

Hagrid had just come in through a side door. His left hand was well bandaged up. He waved at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They waved back, all three wearing looks of mixed concern, because Hagrid had been hurt, and disappointment, because from his cheery disposition, it was clear that the skwerts were still getting on quite well.

A moment later, a voice said, “Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?”

Ron looked up to say something and his eyes glazed over.

Harry sent him a strange look and turned around to look. Something fizzed away in the back of his mind and went pop. She was the one. She had to have been one of the en-muffled students because there’s no way he could have forgotten a face like that.

“You can have it,” Harry said, picking up the dish and holding it out to her. He couldn’t quite keep the appraising look off his face. Clearly, for her to be chosen as her school’s champion, there had to be something more to her than her stunning good looks.

“You ’ave finished wiz it?”

“Yeah,” Ron replied breathlessly. “Yeah, it was excellent.”

The girl took the dish from Harry and disappeared back to the Ravenclaw table. Ron watched her go, his head lolled to one side and a dreamy expression on his face. Harry started to laugh. Hermione wore a very severe scowl.

“It is so unfair,” Hermione muttered. “When a girl is attractive, you treat her like an idiot. Well who’s the idiot now, ay?”

“She’s a veela!” Ron exclaimed, hoarse with excitement.

“She is not!” Hermione snapped. “No one else is drooling down their robe-fronts at her.”

Ron absently wiped his chin on his sleeve and continued staring. Hermione wasn’t quite right. There were lots of other boys struck dumb by the French girl.

“I’m telling you that’s not a normal girl,” Ron said, leaning sideways to get a better view of her. “They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts.”

It suddenly occurred to Harry that the girl had left her seat at the Ravenclaw table, passing the Hufflepuff table by completely, to come over to ask them, halfway down the Gryffindor table, for a bowl of soup that there had to be dozens of in the Hall. He turned in his seat to look at her again and wondered why she’d done it.

“Look,” Hermione said, prodding him out of his thoughts. She pointed to the High Table earnestly. “It’s Bagman.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed and he twisted back around in his seat to see. It looked like the last two seats among the staff were about to be filled. Bagman went straight to one and helped himself to several desserts.

“And Crouch too,” Ron added, finally returning from the realm of fantasy. “He’s Percy’s boss.”

“Did you see they brought in that big cask?  What do you think that is?” Hermione said.

“Sorry, we were a little distracted,” Harry said absently, craning to see the box she was talking about where it was being set up on the table in front of Dumbledore. Then he took the last vacant seat.

Dumbledore stood. “The moment has come. The Triwizard Tournament is about to start but I would like to say a few words before the goblet is lit just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, for those who don’t know them, I’d like to introduce Mr Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Mr Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

There was some polite applause for both men. Harry started to clap but then found himself seized by a yawn. It seemed that, unfortunately, his Pepper Up was starting to wear off already.

“Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament and will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts," Dumbledore said. “There will be three tasks spaced throughout the year and they will each test the champions in different ways... their magical prowess, daring, powers of deduction, and of course their ability to cope with danger. Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch have examined these tasks and made the necessary arrangements for each challenge.”

All through the Hall, students were on the edge of their seats with anticipation. The talk of danger hardly dulled their enthusiasm.

“As you know,” Dumbledore continued, “three champions compete in the tournament, one from each of the three schools. They will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

Dumbledore took out his wand and tapped the lid three times. The lid creaked slowly open, the polished wood and jewel inlays glittering vibrantly as the light caught them. From within, he drew a hewn wooden cup entirely unremarkable except for the blue-white flames dancing in it. Dumbledore closed the casket and set the cup on top of it where all the Hall could see.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a strip of parchment,” Dumbledore took a small slip from his own pocket, “and drop it into the goblet like so.”

The flames in the goblet flared white as the parchment floated through them unharmed and disappeared into the cup. Harry’s breath caught in his throat. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?  Had he just watched it happen?  Had that slip had his name on it?  But no. He knew he wasn’t the Hogwarts Champion and Dumbledore wouldn’t have arranged for a fourth champion — it would be too clearly cheating, too clearly forced. No one would believe it was only fate. If Dumbledore had just submitted Harry’s name, it would have been for Hogwarts champion, Harry felt sure.

“The goblet will be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight where it will be freely accessible to those wishing to compete. To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation, I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed. No one under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered lightly. Once a champion is selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure that you are prepared to play before entering your name in the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

As if the word bed had its own magic, Harry’s eyelids drooped — or maybe it was that he’d only just realized they were doing so when Dumbledore concluded his speech. It didn’t really matter why though because either way, Harry was very tired. His early evening the day before had obviously not done him much good. He yawned hugely and stood to walk with his friends back to the tower. But as they walked along the front of the Hall towards the main doors, Harry had to walk by the Goblet of Fire. Harry felt a shiver of fear creep up his spine and his eyes darted around the room. Somewhere close, there was someone who worked for Riddle just waiting for their opportunity to enter Harry in a very dangerous tournament so that at the end of it, they would have the opportunity somehow to kidnap him from behind some of the oldest and strongest wards in Britain, right out from beneath Dumbledore’s very own nose. Harry shuddered and hurried to catch up with Ron and Hermione.

He found them lingering in the Entrance Hall, waiting for Harry to find them and watching the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students bundle up against the cool night and head outside.

“I guess the carriage and the ship have sleeping quarters,” Hermione said.

“There you are,” Ron said when Harry appeared at his side again. “Come on then.”

The walk to Gryffindor Tower had never seemed so long to Harry. With each step, his exhaustion was returning as if he hadn’t even slept at all last night. When he nearly missed the trick stair, Hermione and Ron gave him some very worried looks.

“Are you alright, mate?” Ron asked him.

“No,” Harry admitted. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to Madam Pomfrey for a sleeping draught.” He really, really didn’t want to, but what else could he do?  Being magically put to sleep left a patient very vulnerable and that would hardly solve his problem of not being able to sleep because his brain couldn’t stop worrying about being attacked. He just didn’t feel safe about taking one, not tonight of all nights. One of You Know Who’s minions was lurking in the castle tonight! 


	20. Champions are Chosen

“Madam Pomfrey?” Harry called as he came into the Hospital Wing to find it empty.

“Just a moment,” Pomfrey’s voice called from her office.

Harry wandered into her office where she was just coming through from her rooms, probably after the ward on the Hospital Wing doors had alerted her to his arrival. She tied the belt of her dressing gown and closed the door to her chambers behind her.

“Oh, Harry, how are you?” she said, smiling at him kindly.

“Tired,” Harry admitted. “Really tired. I think I probably need a sleeping potion. I’m just... paranoid I guess. I haven’t been able to relax all week and now I’m so far beyond tired and its just not getting better.”

Poppy wrung her hands. “I suppose having you sleep on the ward is out of the question, given the source of these problems?  I thought so. Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re safe in your dorm, Harry. Why don’t I send you back with a potion?”

“No,” Harry cried. He was so tired and he just wanted to sleep but he didn’t feel safe. “Please. I know I sound paranoid, but I really... I just can’t... That’s been the problem all week — I sleep but if I don’t feel safe, I might as well not bother for all the good it does,” he floundered. He just couldn’t explain, not without the whole backstory. And he was far, far too tired to make something up.

“Alright. I could put you in an isolation room... or, well, I’d have to talk to Minnie... we have a spare room, but I’m not sure its proper. Just wait here, will you?”

Harry nodded and Poppy disappeared back into her chambers.

When Poppy didn’t return right away, Harry had to sit down and rest his head in his hands. He was definitely coming down from the Pepper Up now.

After what seemed like ages, Madam Pomfrey returned. “Come on in, Harry,” she said. “Minnie’s agreed to bend the rules a little bit.”

Harry struggled to his feet to follow her. She showed him to the spare room he’d seen in previous visits to her quarters. The bed had been made and the bedside lamp was lit. Harry shuffled in and sat heavily on the edge of the bed and began removing his shoes.

“Call a house elf and have them bring whatever you need for bed,” Poppy said. “I’ll floo Professor Snape. He’s not sure a standard sleeping potion would do the job, so he made something special and we’ve been working out a proper dose for you.”

Harry waited until she’d bustled out of the room before trying to call a house elf.

“Er, house elf?” Harry called dumbly. He wasn’t sure how you called any generic house elf — at the Black House, he’d always called Dobby, Kreacher, or Winky by name.

But ‘house elf’ seemed to work because an unfamiliar one popped in beside him.

“I need my toothbrush and toothpaste, pajama bottoms, socks, a comb, and a face towel, please,” Harry told the elf. She popped away and returned just a couple of minutes later with the items he’d requested. He changed into his pajamas and clean socks, put the comb on the bedside table, and took the rest with him to the loo.

“Mr Potter, a moment please,” Professor McGonagall said, intercepting him on his way back to the spare room. “I want to make something very clear: there is to be no rumor-mongering about the personal lives of staff. As far as any of your friends and classmates are concerned, you spent the evening in Poppy’s spare room. I do not wish to come into your accounts, is that clear?”

“Yes ’am,” Harry slurred tiredly.

“Oh goodness, child. Next time, don’t wait so long,” she said kindly, then she left Harry and disappeared into the bedroom she shared with Poppy.

“Off to bed now, Harry. Severus will be up any minute,” Poppy said, following Harry to his room and lingering on the threshold. “This is a common problem for cases like yours — the standard potions not quite managing to overcome the adrenaline of anxiety and just not letting the mind to switch off from red alert. But Severus has made something that should help and—” she was interrupted by knocking. “Ah, that should be him now.”

Poppy disappeared into the sitting room, there was the sound of a door being open and exchanged greetings and then Snape came into the room. He pulled the desk chair out and spun it around to sit beside Harry’s bed.

“Listen to me, Potter. I know you’re tired but this is important. This potion should work and I have calculated its dosage precisely to suit you but it is very potent and there are rules governing its use, rules in place for your safety. You are not to take this sleeping potion nor any other sleeping potion without my direct supervision. When you have taken this sleeping potion, you cannot have any other potion for 24 hours without my explicit permission. It is all too easy for wizards with your symptoms to take a sleeping potion and get no noticeable benefit simply because their mind is convinced it is not safe to fall asleep. Some will then take another dose or another potion and end up overdosing and dying. Do you understand, Potter?  You require supervision while taking this potion.”

“Yessir,” Harry said dazedly.

“You are not filling me with confidence, Potter,” Snape complained, but even as he did it, he began measuring some potion from the bottle into a measured dosing cup. “Sit up a bit.”

Harry struggled to get up on his elbows and Snape held the cup to his mouth and helped him drink it, then Harry slid back down, head falling heavily to his pillow. He sighed and let his eyes fall closed. He heard Snape put the cap back on the bottle of potion but he didn’t get up to leave. Harry opened his eyes again. “Are you going to wait here?”

“Why?” Snape asked. “Will you be unable to sleep with me looming over you?”

“No,” Harry mumbled.

“This potion has the potential to be quite dangerous, Potter. I must remain until you fall asleep, if you fall asleep. Then Madam Pomfrey will set some monitoring spells and only then will I have discharged my duty. If you do not feel you can relax in my presence, however, I could wait outside your door.”

Harry didn’t respond. Snape realized his eyes had slid shut again.

“Potter?” Snape questioned quietly.

Harry’s only reply was a gentle snore.

Snape scoffed and rolled his eyes, but got up and left the room.

“He is asleep already, Poppy. Set your charms,” Snape said.

Poppy got up off the sofa. “My, that was fast. Well done, Severus. I’m sure Harry appreciates it. I certainly do,” she said as she passed him.

Snape scowled and said nothing, but watched as Poppy cast several charms

“There. I suppose you’re off to your own bed then.”

“I have patrols to do again tonight. The joys of being the youngest staff member,” Snape said, and immediately headed for the door.

“Goodnight, Severus,” Madam Pomfrey said kindly.

He didn’t reply. Poppy shook here head and locked the door behind him, then went to her own bed.

“That man,” Poppy told Minnie as she. “It’s not that he’s young, it’s that he’s paranoid and exacting,” she said.

“Is he whinging about doing rounds again?” Minnie asked. “He just wants something to complain about. Try offering to take them away and he fights like a tiger to keep them.”

Poppy hummed noncommittally as she took off her dressing gown and climbed into bed. She turned off the light and snuggled up close beside Minnie.

“Is Harry going to be alright?” Minnie whispered worriedly.

“Yeah, I think he is. He’s strong,” Poppy reassured her.

Minnie put an arm around her and planted a kiss on her hair. “I hope you’re right, love. He doesn’t deserve this.”

*****

The next morning, Harry awoke slowly to light coming through a small window. He felt much better this morning and was in no hurry to move, so he lay there, hoping perhaps he had a bit more time to sleep and he may indeed have managed to fall back to sleep for a little while, but the next thing he knew, there was a light knock on his door.

“Time to get up, Harry, or you’ll be late for breakfast,” Professor McGonagall called from outside his door. “You can use the shower and I’ve had an elf bring one of your uniforms”

Harry relented and rolled out of bed at last. He quickly showered and dressed, then hurried down to breakfast. The decorations in the Hall had changed again. Now a cloud of enchanted bats fluttered through the air above and carved pumpkins sat among the breakfast plates on each of the tables. The topic of conversation on everyone’s lips this morning seemed to be who had submitted their name, who had tried and subsequently been sent to Madam Pomfrey for de-bearding, and who would or would not make a good champion for Hogwarts. Harry knew it would be Cedric. He remembered “Kill the Spare,” and seeing Cedric fall to the ground beside him. The thought even now sent a shiver up his spine. He knew that, somehow, he and Cedric had gone straight from the third task of the tournament to that scene. He just wished he knew more. He’d have to be on his guard if he had any chance of preventing the same outcome again.

“Don’t you think Angelina would make a good champion, mate?” Ron asked pointedly, elbowing Harry in the ribs to get his attention.

Harry focused in on the present and left those memories behind. “What?  Oh, yes, of course. I hope you get it, Angelina,” he said politely.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said, and then continued down the table to join her friends for breakfast.

“Pass the sausage, would you Dean,” Ron asked, already reaching over Seamus to get at a plate of pancakes. On Seamus’ other side, Dean grabbed the sausage plate and passed it over.

“It’d be great to have a Gryffindor champion,” Dean said.

“Way better than Slytherin, that’s for sure,” Seamus opined.

“I expect whoever the goblet chooses will be the best in the school,” Hermione said.

“So if it is one of ours, that will prove we’re the best,” Ron said, grinning.

“Just like we’ve always known,” Dean agreed.

After breakfast, Harry, Ron and Hermione headed back to Gryffindor for awhile and spent some time in the library. Later in the day, they went to visit Hagrid who was wearing a hairy suit and a strange cologne in hope of impressing Madame Maxime. They talked to him for awhile, until an owl tapped at the window. Hagrid got up to let it in and it flew to Ron.

“Huh. It’s from Charlie,” Ron said after reading it. “He says he’ll be visiting soon. Doesn’t say much though. He was sure he wouldn’t get more leave this year, not after taking two weeks off for the World Cup.”

“You don’t think something’s wrong, do you?  I mean, he’d have said if there was trouble, wouldn’t he?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know. Romania had a revolution five years ago. There could be trouble again,” Ron said distractedly as he read the letter over again.

“I’m sure it’s nothin’ like that,” Hagrid said. “Maybe he can’ tell ya why.”

“You think it has something to do with the tournament?” Harry asked, keen on any information he could get about it.

“I don’ rightly know, Harry, but even if I did, I couldn’ tell ya,” Hagrid replied.

Ron’s look of concern didn’t change. “I’ll meet you at the feast. I’m going to go write back,” he said worriedly. “Bye, Hagrid.” Then he hurried off towards the castle.

A little while later, after briefly trying to talk to Hagrid about the dangers of Skrewts and getting nowhere, Harry and Hermione headed back to the castle too, just as people were starting to make their way to the Great Hall for the evening feast.

“Harry, look,” Hermione whispered, nudging Harry’s elbow and pointing at the open main doors.

Harry looked up to see Professor McGonagall leading Bagman and Crouch and their assorted assistants as well as a few press into the Entrance Hall from outside.

“Bagman,” Harry growled and doubled his pace.

“What?  Harry what are you doing?” Hermione called after him.

Down below, the group was moving into the Great Hall.

“Mr Bagman,” Harry called, running up to him and getting in his way.

“Ah, Mr Potter,” Bagman said, laughing uncomfortably. “So nice to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Harry said tritely. “Could I talk to you in alone, perhaps?”

“I don’t know if we have the time—”

“We’ll just be inside, Bagman. Take your time,” Mr Crouch said.

The party of Ministry employees and press streamed around Harry and the nervous Bagman.

“Leprechaun gold, Bagman?” Harry whispered angrily.

“Gambling underage, Harry?” Bagman countered.

“I told you,” Hermione hissed in Harry’s ear.

He turned and glared at her to keep her mouth shut and let the adults do the talking, then pinned Bagman with an equally intense stare. “I know I wasn’t the only one whose winnings vanished by morning. Are you saying you’d turn yourself in just to keep from paying me the 50 galleons you owe?”

Bagman’s eyes narrowed. “Harry, Harry, there are more ways to deal with this little difficulty than to go to law enforcement. All this press already here. You know reporters, Harry. They’re always hungry for a story. I would just be a ‘confidential informant’.”

Harry scowled. Rita Skeeter was just inside the Great Hall, directing her photographer to get shots of the high table and the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students. Harry could imagine the story from her quill, blown up until he was fighting a full blown gambling addiction. “I know others you paid in false gold and other bets you took from underage wizards. That wouldn’t look too good for you,” Harry countered.

Bagman chewed on his lower lip. “It seems we’re at an impasse here. Perhaps we can just agree to forget all about this. Best for the both of us.” Seeing Harry’s unenthusiastic expression, he added, “I suppose I could give you your five galleons back.”

“Fine,” he growled. “And you pay the Weasley twins back their bet too. Then none of us know anything about any shady wagers.”

“You have a deal,” Bagman said. He reached into his pocket and took out a money bag which he upended onto his palm. There were only 5 Galleons, a Sickle, and 6 Knuts inside. “Here’s your 5 galleons. I’ll have to bring your friends their money next time I’m here.”

Harry nodded once and pocketed his galleons, then left Bagman without another word. Hermione scampered after him.

“Harry, I can’t believe you did that. You practically threatened a Ministry official,” Hermione protested, her voice taking on the high-pitched whine only managed by over-enthusiastic whisperers.

“Hermione,” Harry snapped. “You got what you wanted so now we don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

“I wanted you to stay out of trouble,” Hermione protested.

“I have to establish myself, Hermione. You may need my help at some point and even if you don’t, I have to make sure people know they can’t just walk all over me. I’m an underage public figure and if I don’t set boundaries, people will take advantage.”

“Who?” Hermione asked.

They’d reached the Gryffindor table at last and sat down.

“You’re hardly being followed by paparazzi.”

Harry sighed and took as long as he dared to put together some kind of explanation that would make sense to her. At last, he said, “No, but all my life, even before I knew why, people would just run up to me on the street and shake my hand. The first time I went to Diagon Alley, the first forty minutes were nothing but handshakes. There was a queue and people came back three or four times before Hagrid finally put an end to it. I was a kid then so there was someone there to watch out for me, but now I’m growing up and have to start doing it for myself.”

Hermione listened and took it all in, thought about it, then decided to say nothing. Harry happily let the subject drop and helped himself to a plate of food. With this being their second feast in two days and everyone’s attention taken by the imminent selection of the champions, this feast didn’t last as long as usual, but to many, it seemed to go on forever.

Harry was worried that he wouldn’t be able to manage his own reactions to his own name coming up as a fourth champion. He had a plan, because he knew he needed to minimize negative reactions if he was going to keep his political influence with Fudge and avoid any unpleasantness with the students and staff at Hogwarts, but he wasn’t sure if his skills at manipulation might be a little rusty given how long he’d been away from the Dursleys now.

At last, the plates disappeared. Dumbledore stood and, gesturing to the goblet which had been brought in from the Entrance Hall for the feast, said, “I believe the goblet should be nearly ready to make its decisions. Now when the champions’ names are called, please come up front and go through to the side chamber. There you will receive further instructions.”

And then the blue-white flames turned red and sparks started to fly from it high into the air. Suddenly, a tongue of flame shot up into the air propelling a slip of parchment. Dumbledore’s hand shot out to catch it as the flames in the goblet turned back to blue. Dumbledore unfolded it and read it silently before saying, “The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum.”

“No surprises there,” Ron yelled over the roar of applause and cheers. Krum got up from the Slytherin table, looking just as surly as usual, and walked up to the front and disappeared through the door into the side chamber.

The clapping died away as everyone focused back on the goblet. It turned red again and repeated its fireworks. Dumbledore caught this slip too, read it and said, “The champion for Beauxbatons will be Fleur Delacour.”

“Blimey, it’s her!” Ron shouted, applauding even more loudly.

“Beauty and brains,” Harry said approvingly over the applause.

Fleur walked up to the front of the hall and followed Victor into the side chamber. Back at the Ravenclaw table, a few of the French students who had not been selected were inconsolable.

Silence fell again — a tense, anticipatory sort of silence. Now most of the room was on the edge of their seats for the selection and announcement of the Hogwarts champion.

When the flames in the goblet turned red and exploded a third time, the crowd drew a collective breath. Dumbledore read the slip and a small, satisfied smile came to his lips. “The champion for Hogwarts will be Cedric Diggory.”

The whole of Hufflepuff leapt to their feet, cheers, clapping, jumping up and down, and clapping Cedric on the back as he came up to the front and headed for the side chamber where the other champions were already waiting.

Harry’s heart was in his throat as he outwardly relaxed with his fellow students. He had this desperate grain of hope that maybe it would turn out differently and he wouldn’t be chosen as a fourth champion.

When the cheering finally died down, Dumbledore spoke again. “Excellent. Well we now have our three champions. I’m sure I can count on all of you to give your champions the support they deserve and...” Harry’s heart fell through the pit of his stomach as the goblet’s fire turned red yet again. This was it. Dumbledore stopped speaking and looked at it. It shot out a fourth slip of paper and Harry had just seconds to prepare himself before Dumbledore cleared his throat and said, “Harry Potter.”

Instead of applause, the hall rapidly filled with the buzz of frantic whispered conversation.

Harry was ready. “What?  What’s going on?” he asked, feigning confusion.

Up at the high table, Professor McGonagall stood and walked behind Bagman and Karkaroff to whisper in Dumbledore’s ear.

“You entered?” Dean asked, looking at Harry with an impressed expression.

“No,” Harry said. “I swear I didn’t. How could this happen?”

At the top table, McGonagall straightened up again, nodded to Poppy and Professor Snape and they too rose.

“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore called again.

“Get up, Harry. You have to go,” Hermione hissed at him, even giving him a push with her elbow.

Harry rose slowly. The confused expression was gone from his face, leaving only a blank one. He’d learned from his Aunt that keeping a single expression for too long meant he was lying. Harry chewed on his lower lip, a nervous habit he couldn’t help sometimes, as he walked up to the front and crossed the hall in front of the high table. Dumbledore was not smiling as Harry passed, but Professor McGonagall gave him an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder as he passed and she and Poppy and Snape followed him into the chamber off the hall.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Harry turned to McGonagall and said, “I didn’t enter. What’s going on?”

“I know you didn’t, Harry,” she said completely seriously.

Harry didn’t have to feign relief at hearing that.

“Dumbledore says the portraits in the Entrance Hall claim you entered your name just after midnight this morning. We know it couldn’t have been you.”

“What iz it?  What has happened, please?” Fleur asked the professors.

Before anyone could reply, Bagman burst into the chamber, followed closely by Crouch and each of the Headmasters.

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Bagman, looking like Christmas had come early. “A fourth Triwizard champion. Truly remarkable!”

Krum straightened up and sent Harry a considering look. Cedric’s jaw fell open, then he looked from Harry to McGonagall, recalling their interrupted conversation, and he closed his mouth again and turned to Dumbledore expectantly. Fleur looked uncertain of what to believe. She kept looking from Harry to Bagman and back.

“Excuse me,” Harry protested. “I can’t compete because I’m too young and besides that, I didn’t even enter.”

“Well as you know, the age restriction was only added this year as an extra safety precaution. It’s not actually in the tournament rules themselves and as your name did come out of the goblet, you are bound to compete. I’m sorry, Harry, but you’ll just have to do your best,” Bagman said, though far from sounding sorry, he seemed almost gleeful.

“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” Madame Maxime demanded, taking up a position behind her school’s champion. “ ’Ogwarts cannot ’ave two champions. It iz most unjust.”

“And I was under the impression that your Age Line would keep out the younger students. If I’d known, and I’m sure Madame Maxime would agree, I would have brought a wider selection of students,” Karkaroff protested.

Dumbledore turned to Harry. “Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?”

“No,” Harry said.

“Albus, I’ve already told you—” Professor McGonagall began but Dumbledore held up a hand.

“Did you ask any older student to submit your name for you?” Dumbledore asked.

“Would that have worked?” Harry asked, shocked. Surely it couldn’t have been that easy, or else the Weasley twins wouldn’t have bothered with the Aging Potion.

“Answer the question, Potter,” Snape barked shortly from behind him.

“Oh, no,” Harry said, blushing.

“Ah, but of course ’e is lying!” cried Madame Maxime.

“I’m not,” Harry protested, though not so strongly as to give offense which might make the argument worse.

“Lay your cards out, Albus, and let’s get this over with,” Minnie snapped.

“Mr Potter, I have reliable information that you were seen in the Entrance Hall around midnight, submitting your own name. Can you tell me please, how did you do it?”

“You made a mistake with the Age Line, Dumbledore?” Karkaroff asked smugly.

“I didn’t. It wasn’t me,” Harry insisted.

“And I can verify that,” Snape said through a severe scowl. He looked most displeased to be coming to Harry’s defense. “Last night at precisely 9:33 pm, I was called upon by Madam Pomfrey to assist her in calculating an appropriate dosage of a modified Dreamless Sleep Potion for Mr Potter. As the properly educated among you should know, the effective dosage for treatment of vivid nightmares in juveniles is dangerously close to the toxicity threshold for henbane. To be certain that my work proved safe, I personally calculated the dosage and administered it, then monitored the patient until he fell asleep. I can thus verify that Mr Potter could only have been sound asleep in bed at the time in question and I would be able to take a professional oath to that effect.”

“I can as well,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I felt it was best to set Mr Potter up in a spare bedroom in my own chambers, close enough that I could be at his side in an instant if the monitoring charm I placed on him to detect any negative reaction to the potion were to alert. Even sleepwalking was included in that monitoring charm so had he left his bed in the night, asleep or awake, and tried to leave, I would have known. I am quite certain that Mr Potter was in bed all night.”

This silenced the distrustful in the room.

“So I don’t have to compete?” Harry asked.

Behind Harry, the door swung open and shut again, but it went unnoticed as Karkaroff spoke again.

“Mr Crouch... Mr Bagman,” Karkaroff said with an unctuous tone and a smarmy smile. “As our objective judges, what do you believe must be done?”

“We must follow the rules, and the rules clearly state that those persons whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament. The goblet, by design, would not accept a slip with a name which was not written by the applicant’s own hand so it was simply assumed that all names which came out would have been submitted by the individual. I am afraid this circumstance was simply not foreseen, but we must follow the letter of the rules. Mr Potter must compete,” Crouch ruled.

“Well, Barty knows the rulebook back to front,” Bagman said, grinning broadly.

“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students,” Karkaroff said, now looking truly nasty. “You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more and we will continue adding names until a second champion from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are named. It’s only fair.”

“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” said Bagman. “The goblet’s just gone out — it won’t reignite until the start of the next tournament—”

“In which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!” Karkaroff exploded. “I have half a mind to leave now!”

“Zat is an empty threat, Karkaroff,” Madame Maxime snapped. “I no more like it zen you, but neizer of us can leave now. Our champions are bound to compete, just as ze boy is.”

“Well I shall be lodging complaints with the International Confederation of Wizards—” Karkaroff said.

“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter, but I don’t hear him complaining,” a gravely voice said, followed by the sound of a peg-legged man stepping away from the door and walking up to stand quite close to Karkaroff.

“You must have missed it,” Harry muttered.

“He may not have chosen zis, but ’e has ze chance to compete now. We ’ave been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks!  Ze honor for our schools!  Ze thousand Galleons prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!” Fleur protested.

“Maybe someone is hoping Potter will die for it,” Moody growled, still invading Karkaroff’s personal space, a look of disgust on his grizzled face.

A tense silence followed those words. Professor McGonagall’s hand on Harry’s shoulder squeezed gently but she too seemed at a loss for words.

At last, Bagman broke the silence with a forced chortle. “What a thing to say Moody, old man!”

“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t uncovered seven plots to murder him before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but I guess you had your reasons, Dumbledore.”

“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing things, eh?  It took a skilled witch or wizard to put the boy’s name in the goblet...”

“What evidence is zere of zat?” Madame Maxime demanded. She looked unsure of who to believe, the paranoid ex-auror or the accomplished headmaster of Durmstrang.

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” said Moody. “It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools participate in the Triwizard Tournament.”

Silence fell as the seriousness of what had happened sank in.

“You seem to have given this some thought,” Karkaroff said, unable to resist the opportunity for a jibe. “A very ingenious theory... of course, I heard that you recently got into your head that one of your birthday presents was a cunningly disguised basilisk egg and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock.”

“There are those who would turn innocent occasions to their advantage,” Moody hissed menacingly. “It’s my job to think the way Dark Wizards do, Karkaroff... as you ought to remember—”

“Alastor!” Dumbledore snapped warningly.

Moody fell silent and took a step back, out of the personal space of the now very red Karkaroff.

“How this situation arose, we do not know. It seems to me that we have no choice but to proceed with these four champions. If any here have a viable alternative suggestion, let us here it now,” Dumbledore said.

No one offered up any ideas.

“Well, shall we crack on then?” Bagman asked, excitedly rubbing his hands together. “Barty, the instructions for the champions...”

Mr Crouch almost seemed to awaken when Bagman nudged him. Harry reflected that, at least in this light from the flickering fire, Crouch looked rather ill. “Oh, yes,” Crouch said. “The directions, yes. The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told the champions, “so we aren’t going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of an unknown is an important quality in a wizard.

“This task will take place on the twenty-fourth of November, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. Champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete any of the tasks in this tournament. The champions will face the first challenge with only their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over.”

Crouch turned to Dumbledore and nodded that that was all. Dumbledore was looking at Crouch with mild concern, but recovered quickly and said, “Yes, that should be it.”

Madame Maxime quickly put her arm around Fleur’s shoulders and guided her out of the room. They were conversing rapidly in French as they went. Karkaroff too was in a hurry to leave. He beckoned Viktor and fled in silence.

“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go back to your houses,” Dumbledore said. “I am sure both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you and it would be a great shame to deprive them of an excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.”


	21. Taking Sides

Cedric glanced at Harry, but Harry looked to Minnie and Poppy for direction.

“Go back to the tower, Harry,” Minnie said. “I’ll be up before you go to bed to add a few extra spells to your bed curtains. I want to be sure you’re safe whenever they’re closed so you can get some sound sleep and I can feel a bit better about this turn of events.”

Harry nodded and turned to Cedric. “Shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” Cedric said. They left together, heading through the Great Hall, now empty, the candles burnt down. Even the reporters and the Ministry staff had been cleared out with the students.

As they were leaving, Harry heard Dumbledore say, “Barty, are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight?”

Out in the Entrance Hall, Cedric paused. “So I guess we’ll be competing against each other.”

“I guess so,” Harry said with a sigh. Then neither seemed to know what to say next and an awkward silence stretched.

“Happy Birthday, by the way,” Harry blurted out into the uncomfortable space. “You must have just had one to qualify for the Tournament, right?”

“Thanks. It was two weeks ago,” Cedric said, smiling.

Harry nodded and the awkward silence returned. “I should get back, and so should you. I’m sure Professor Dumbledore was right about those parties.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow,” Cedric said. He then headed down the corridor towards the kitchens and Hufflepuff House.

Harry let some of the tension ebb from his body. He was pretty sure it had all been well acted, especially since his desire not to have to participate was genuine and he felt that a certain amount of annoyance with Dumbledore for allowing this to happen had been acceptable. But as he climbed the stairs and began the trek to Gryffindor Tower, he knew that he’d survived this tournament before and was confident he could do it again. It wasn’t the tournament that worried him, it was the Death Eaters that were somehow involved.

When he finally made it, he spoke the password to the Fat Lady and one of the women from the portraits on the ground floor who seemed to be visiting to gossip. The portrait hole swung open and Harry was nearly knocked back by a wall of cheers, applause, screaming, and whistling and suddenly, he was grabbed and yanked inside. The whole of Gryffindor was assembled and ready to party.

“You should have told us you’d entered,” Fred Weasley said, looking equal parts impressed and annoyed.

“How’d you manage it without a getting a beard?” George wanted to know.

“I didn’t. Moody reckons whoever did put my name in had to use some serious magic to make the goblet choose a fourth champion,” Harry said. He might have continued, but Angelina stepped up and congratulated him, followed closely by the other Gryffindor chasers, and then one thing led to another and Harry was being passed around the house, a plate and cup were pressed into his hands and then filled from a table of food and butterbeers. Everyone wanted to know how he’d beat Dumbledore’s Age Line. He kept repeating that he hadn’t, but his fellow Gryffindors were uninterested in his protests. At last, he’d had enough.

“That’s it. I’m done. I’m going to bed!” Harry announced. He pushed his way through the crowd and up the stairs to the boys dormitory, refusing to stop for anybody.

When he reached his dorm and closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise of the party at last, he sighed with relief. Then he noticed Ron was laying on his bed, still fully dressed and wearing an expression like a demented carnival clown.

“Uh, hello,” Harry said, throwing his friend a worried look.

“Yeah, hi,” Ron said. “Congratulations.” It just made his grin look creepier.

Harry’s hand lingered over his wand pocket. He was acutely aware that there was someone in the castle who could impersonate people. “Are you okay, Ron?” he asked slowly.

“I’m your best friend, Harry. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Ron said, his twisted grin slipping into a grimace. “How’d you do it, Harry?  Even Fred and George couldn’t cross that Age Line.”

Harry’s face managed a grimace of his own. Now that he saw what was going on, he realized that this was just Ron’s old jealousy rearing its ugly head. Exhausted by the day, he threw himself onto his own bed before answering.

“I didn’t, Ron,” Harry said, though it was starting to lose meaning even to his ears after repeating it so many times in the common room without being believed. “Do you really think a fourth year could have tricked the Goblet of Fire into thinking the Triwizard Tournament has four champions?”

“But you’re Harry Potter,” Ron countered.

Harry’s eyebrows shot upwards, disappearing under his messy fringe. “I’m a schoolkid, Ron, famous for something that happened when I was still in nappies. Someone else put my name in the goblet.”

“Why would they do that?” Ron snapped, disbelieving.

“Moody reckons its to kill me,” Harry snapped back.

“That’s rubbish,” Ron spat, sitting up and leaning angrily towards Harry. “You just said you’re only a kid. I don’t know why you’re bothering to lie. You didn’t even get in trouble for it. That friend of the Fat Lady’s, Violet, she already told us Dumbledore’s letting you enter. A thousand galleons prize money, eh?  You knew the twins needed that money, Harry!  You could have at least given them a chance!  They’d have beat Diggory out for sure and you’d still have been in so no skin off your nose!” Ron was yelling and spitting with anger.

Harry got to his feet and stood over Ron, face twisted in anger and hurt and betrayal. “I didn’t enter my name. I was with you all day and—”

“You were gone all night!” Ron interrupted.

“I was in a drugged sleep with Madam Pomfrey’s monitoring charms on!” Harry snapped.

“So you did it on the way to the Hospital Wing!  I’m not stupid, you know!” Ron countered. They were both shouting now.

“You’re not very loyal either!” Harry hissed between clenched teeth. “A real friend would believe me!”

Ron blanched and went very stiff. His chin stuck out and his mouth pressed into a very thin line. He said nothing. Harry stood over him, huffing and puffing from the fervor of the row. He too said nothing.

“Well if that’s how you feel,” Ron muttered at last, rolled to the other side of the bed to get up, and walked purposefully out of the room. The noise from the continuing party exploded when he opened the door and dulled back down when he slammed it behind him.

Harry stood there for several minutes, recovering himself and getting a handle on his anger. In some small part of his soul, he felt like this was the third black mark against Ron but his thinking brain was telling him Ron had never done anything like this before. It was all terribly confusing and left Harry torn over how to react. He didn’t know whether to stick by his pride and say enough is enough with Ron’s jealousy or to go and apologize for their row and try to smooth things over with his friend. In the end, he decided that after the stress of the day, he was just too tired to think it through tonight so he got ready for bed and drew the bed-curtains around him.

But as he lay there in bed, he couldn’t quiet his thinking. He suspected that whoever had entered his name would be gone from the castle by now. He knew that the end goal of making him a champion was to abduct him at the end of the third task and he just couldn’t imagine Voldemort giving up one of his followers for a whole school year to arrange something that required no actual effort between making sure Harry became a champion and the actual abduction months from now. Surely whoever had entered him would have snuck into the castle to submit his name, perhaps stuck around to make sure he didn’t find a way to get out of it, and then returned to Voldemort’s side. With that comforting thought, Harry rolled over and went to sleep.

*****

“Harry,” a voice called amicably.

He turned and saw Cedric jogging ahead of a group of Hufflepuffs up the corridor from their dormitories. Cedric came to a stop in front of Harry.

“I hope you don’t mind if I call you Harry?” he said quietly. “I didn’t want Hufflepuff to think I blame you, so I’m trying to be seen being friendly.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, shrugging. “I appreciate it, actually. Can I call you Cedric?”

“Of course,” Cedric said, smiling. His friends were catching up with him now. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

They all walked into the Great Hall together. Heads turned as the students took note. Some were perhaps hoping for some entertaining champion rivalry but, seeing none, returned quickly to their food. The group split as it passed the Hufflepuff table and Cedric and his friends took seats at the near end of table. Harry and Hermione continued to the Gryffindor table and took their usual seats. The Weasleys were already there and while Fred and George smiled at them, Ron’s lip twitched, rather like Hermione’s did when Ron talked with his mouth full. He said nothing as they sat down and loaded their plates.

“Good morning, Ron,” Hermione said amicably.

“So you’re siding with him, are you?” Ron asked, very surly.

“What?” Hermione asked, taken aback. “Siding with who?”

Ron jerked the back of his spoon at Harry, but didn’t look at him. Harry realized belatedly that Hermione had no idea about the row he and Ron had had last night.

Hermione looked between Harry and Ron several times. “Have I missed something?” she said at last.

“Uh, yeah,” Ron said. “He’s a liar and a sneak who doesn’t care about his friends.”

“What? !” Hermione shrieked. “Ronald Weasley, I can’t believe you said that!”

“Hermione, calm down,” Harry said. “Ron thinks I put my own name in the goblet.”

“You know I wanted to enter and you know Fred and George did too!” Ron said. “You could have told us, that’s all I’m saying!”

“I don’t know how many times I have to say this, Ron, before it will sink into your thick skull but I did not enter myself!” Harry snapped angrily.

The argument was interrupted by the arrival of several owls, including two that flew right between Ron and Harry to deliver the _Daily Prophet_. Harry unfolded his paper and grimaced. The front page read _Boy Who Lived Fourth Triwizard Champion_ and the photo showed him walking across in front of the staff table on his way to the side chamber last night. It was more than Ron could bear. He growled, threw down his spoon, grabbed a roll in each fist, and stormed out of the Great Hall, many people watching as he did.

“God!  When did he become such a jealous git?” Hermione said.

Harry looked at Hermione wide eyed. That was hardly the sort of thing he expected from her.

“What?” she snapped.

Harry held up his hands defensively. “Nothing,” he muttered and went back to his paper and his breakfast.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, “is Halloween really hard for you, like the article says?”

“Don’t listen to Skeeter, Hermione. She’s a nasty piece of work,” Harry said dismissively.

“Yeah, she is,” Cedric said, taking Ron’s recently vacated seat. “My dad works for the Ministry and says she’s a real gossip hag. He says the _Prophet_ only keeps her around because she has a knack for getting confidential information. She’s a serious liability for them though. I’m surprised she hasn’t had more libel claims against her.”

“Does she have any?” Harry asked curiously.

“She’s been brought up on charges a few times, but the _Prophet_ settled out of court, paid her fine and issued a retraction. Of course, the retractions are always buried in the back and Skeeter’s stories are front page so I’m sure it hasn’t had any effect,” Cedric said. “Do you know last month she called my dad a ‘clay-brained loathsome toady’!”

“We’ll have to watch out,” Harry said. “If she’s covering the whole tournament, she’ll probably try to make all of us look bad at some point.”

As if the discussion of her work had summoned her, and perhaps it had at that, the vain bug that she was, a beetle suddenly flew past Harry’s ear and landed on the table where Harry’s milk glass distorted her image grotesquely. Harry’s arm darted out and grabbed the empty cup, upended it, and trapped the beetle. It launched itself into the air, rocketing around against the inside of the cup angrily. Harry smirked.

“Harry?” Cedric said, looking at him curiously.

Hermione too was wearing a bewildered look.

“It doesn’t belong inside,” Harry said pointedly, though in all likelihood, the glass would distort their conversation too much for Rita to understand what he was saying. “I’ll take it out when I leave.”

“Alright,” Cedric said, shrugging. “Well I should get back to my own breakfast but I just wanted to say, you should feel free to join me at the Hufflepuff table any day for breakfast. I’m going to extend the same invitation to Delacour and Krum and I really mean it. Even if they don’t want to, we’re both representing Hogwarts and, I mean, after what was said at that meeting last night, by Moody and Snape, well, I think we should present a united front. I don’t know what all is going on here that someone would do this to you, but you’re not in it alone. If you need help getting through these tasks, you know, I’ll do what I can.

“Don’t expect me to give you the win,” he added hastily, “but whatever you need, you can always ask, alright?”

“That’s really great of you, Cedric,” Harry said, seriously impressed. “I’m going to try and get through it on my own though.”

“Fair enough,” Cedric said, though his tone was a little bit skeptical. He got up and returned to his own house’s table.

“That was nice of him,” Hermione said. “But I have confidence in you. I think you can do it and maybe even win.”

“I bet Bagman would give you long odds on that one,” Harry told her, “but the rules say I can’t accept help.”

“From professors,” she corrected absently.

Harry just shrugged.

“Do you think you could be disqualified?” Hermione asked, suddenly curious. “Could you get out of it that way?”

Harry was taken aback. He hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He’d been thinking of this as something he wasn’t going to be able to avoid, as he still didn’t know who it was that had made sure he would compete.

“I think I’ll look it up,” Hermione said, grabbing her bag and standing up. “Are you finished?  I need to go to the library.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, polishing off his toast with jam and standing up. He reached into his bag and took out a sheet of parchment, slid it under the glass, and picked the beetle trap up. “Let’s stop off outside first.”

They stopped in the Entrance Hall at the main door. Hermione held it open for Harry while he stepped out onto the top step and tipped the glass up.

“There’s something very unusual about you, little beetle,” he told Skeeter, “so I will put you back outside where you belong this time, but if I see you again, I will pin you to a card in my bug collection.”

The beetle scurried out from under the glass and quickly flew away.

Harry turned around to go back inside.

“You have a bug collection?” Hermione asked, surprised.

Harry shrugged. “I could start one. It could be interesting. Let’s go to the library. I still have to finish that Herbology essay that’s due tomorrow and then maybe we can find some rules to break to get me out of the tournament.”

*****

On Monday, Ron still hadn’t come around. In Herbology, Ron convinced Hufflepuff Megan Jones to switch places with him so he didn’t have to work on the same Bouncing Bulbs as Harry. And later, during Care of Magical Creatures, Ron took his skwert a little away to work with Dean and Seamus whom he also ate lunch with and didn’t so much as look Harry’s way.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Hermione said. “He’s being an idiot. He’ll figure it out.”

Harry sighed and stopped staring.

“I have to go to Arithmancy,” Hermione said, standing up. “Get some work done this afternoon, Harry.”

Harry merely grunted in response causing Hermione to sigh and roll her eyes. “Boys,” she muttered as she shouldered her school bag and walked away.

Harry lingered over his plate. He watched as Ron fell in with Parvati and Lavender to head for Divination. Ron caught his eye as they passed, scowled, and walked on. Harry sighed, pushed his plate back and got up. He had work to do. Madam Pomfrey was expecting him an hour before dinner and he had to finish the Potions essay that was due the next day. He headed straight for the potions section of the library and pulled a few books for reference before finding a table and sitting down to write his essay.

A couple of hours later, he marked his last full stop and stood up to stretch. “Done,” he said to himself, satisfied. He collected the books he’d used for reference and deposited them in the book return, gave his essay one last blot and then rolled it up and packed up his belongings. He checked his watch and figured out that he had enough time to drop his belongings back in his dorm before heading to the Hospital Wing.

The ward was empty on this quiet Monday afternoon and Harry found Madam Pomfrey in her office going over some paperwork.

He knocked on the frame of the open door.

She looked up and smiled brightly at him. “Come in, Harry.”

“I hope I’m not too early,” Harry said, stepping in and taking a seat across the desk from her.

“No, not at all.”

“Were you expecting to see Snape this week?  I know the two of you missed last week with everything that was happening.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said shrugging. He couldn’t be too unhappy about it because he doubted Snape would tolerate his whinging about Ron, but really, that’s what was on his mind today. So they talked about the trouble with Ron and about how he felt having to go through with the Tournament. Madam Pomfrey advised him to be patient, wait to see what happens, and take things one day at a time. Harry agreed to try it. Before he went to bed that night, he lay in bed and told himself that there was nothing he could do about Ron so he should stop worrying about it. He told himself the Tournament would not be any easier if he let the stress get to him. He told himself that Hermione was getting used to her condition and the full moon the next night would be her fifth and she’d already taken her Wolfsbane Potion so there was no reason to fret there. He tried to relax and, slowly, he fell asleep.

Over the next few days, Harry discovered that trying to wait out his problems was easier said than done so he resorted to a new strategy: distraction. To keep his mind off Ron’s continued cold-shoulder, he began spending more of his free time in the library instead of the Gryffindor Common Room. It gave him the opportunity to begin researching possible ways to destroy Voldemort. He didn’t know what he was looking for or where he might find it and he didn’t expect results right away, but he certainly wouldn’t find anything if he didn’t look. So during the day, he browsed the shelves covering all sorts of advanced magics but especially looking for anything that talked about ghosts, spirits, and shades. And at night, sometimes, when he could get away before he got too tired in the evenings, he would slip under his Invisibility Cloak and sneak into the Restricted Section where he could read tomes on such varied topics as exorcism and necromantic rituals. He was learning a lot and he hoped that at some point, the random bits of information he was gathering would somehow coalesce into something he could use, some weapon or spell or rite that would banish the spirit of Voldemort for good. So he kept reading.

One night, Harry was invisibly sitting cross-legged on the floor in the ritual magic section with a somewhat gruesome book on dementor digestion and wondering if there was any way to get a dementor or two to obey him without having to sacrifice anyone else to their appetites when, with no warning whatsoever that anyone else was there, someone spoke behind him.

“Mr Potter.”

Harry had his wand out, leapt to his feet, and was halfway through a Binding Hex when he realized it was Snape. He let his wand fall and struggled to calm his racing heart. Snape was scowling severely at him.

“There are certain people who would find your choice of reading materials deeply suspicious and indeed troubling.”

“I can explain,” Harry said — not the truth, certainly, but the book he happened to have been caught reading was about dementors and that at least he could reasonably claim innocent curiosity for.

Snape knelt and picked up the book, eyed the title on the spine for a moment, then returned it to the shelf.

“I wish you wouldn’t, not to me, at least,” Snape said quietly. He fumbled in an attempt to take Harry by an invisible upper arm and when he found it, he used it to steer Harry bodily from the Restricted Section.

Harry’s brows wrinkled suspiciously. “What have you heard?  Is Dumbledore—”

“Do not put me in that position, Potter,” Snape growled. “If you have questions or, better still, explanations for Dumbledore, you must go to him directly.”

Harry smothered the urge to snort derisively as Snape continued to lead him up the stairs.

“You can let go of my arm, you know,” Harry said.

“And have you disappear under that blasted cloak?  Not a chance,” Snape whispered. Snape continued to lead him all the way to the portrait that guarded Gryffindor Tower.

“Snidget,” Harry said.

“Out of bed at this hour, no consideration for other people. Some of us are trying to sleep you know,” the Fat Lady grumbled sleepily but the portrait swung aside. Only then did Snape drop his grip on Harry’s arm.

“To bed, Potter. No more late night wanderings or there will be consequences,” Snape said, then marched off, leaving Harry to climb through the portrait.

Harry briefly considered returning to his research, but knew that was foolish. He’d already been caught once tonight; if he was caught again the same night, he’d be in serious trouble. So he threw himself into a chair by the fire. So Dumbledore was still suspicious. Harry wondered if Dumbledore thought he was just cracked from the dementor attack or if he was worried that the attack had actually changed his carefully crafted sacrificial hero, perhaps given Harry a personal understanding of risk. When Harry’d told Dumbledore no, that he wouldn’t hear a hair-brained hint of a suggestion and take it as an order, maybe Dumbledore had started to worry about his plans and his prospects should Voldemort return to power. Maybe he feared for the prophecy. Or there was a darker possibility. Sometimes Harry had nightmares about Dumbledore attacking him, saying he had to destroy the horcrux and not believing Harry or the Sorting Hat telling him it was already gone. Harry suddenly felt cold and couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. He got up on shaky legs and moved closer to the banked fire. How would he know if Dumbledore decided that he had to be dealt with, whether over a misunderstanding about the horcrux or perhaps fearing that Harry was headed down a Dark path all his own?  Would he have enough of a warning that he could escape or would Dumbledore suddenly appear behind him and destroy him in one flash of spell-light?  

*****

“Ah, look!  Got your autograph books boys?  We’d better get those signatures now because I doubt he’s going to be around much longer... a lot of Triwizard Champions have died... how long d’you reckon you’re going to last, Potter?  Ten minutes into the first task is my bet.”

Crabbe and Goyle laughed obediently at Malfoy’s little attempt at a joke.

Harry lifted one eyebrow. He’d figured it was only a matter of time before those who disliked him started in on that. There’d been Potter Stinks badges going around though Cedric had told several Hufflepuffs off for having them. Harry might have thought up a reasonable response but he was almost immediately distracted when Hagrid came around his cabin and called them over to a haphazard pile of crates, each containing one skrewt roughly the size of a large pig. Hagrid set the boxes down, revealing two dozen lengths of rope with loops at each end piled on top of the stack. Hagrid launched enthusiastically into his lesson plan for the day which involved fitting the lengths of rope around the skrewts like leashes and taking them for walks in the hope that the expenditure of energy would leave them too tired to kill each other. Harry’s stomach churned.

Beside him, Draco Malfoy echoed his exact thoughts. “Take them for a walk?” Malfoy repeated disgustedly. “Where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash?  Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?”

“Roun’ the middle,” Hagrid replied, taking a single length of rope from around his neck and feeding one end of the rope through the small loop at the opposite end to make a very large loop. “Put on your dragonhide gloves, as a bit o’ extra protection, and Harry, you come help me with this big one.”

 _Hagrid is a good person. You like Hagrid. You don’t want to embarrass him. You don’t want to be the start of a mutiny._ That litany running through Harry’s head was all that kept him from outright refusing in that moment. So he stooped and helped Hagrid slip the leash around the middle of the skrewt. While he dodged the sting and the fire blasts to slip the rope into the notch where the newly-grown armor plates met on the skrewt’s back, he wondered how much longer children would be made to handle these clearly dangerous creatures. Maybe there was something he could do, if he only had a plan.

Hagrid passed him the end of the leash, then walked away and began handing out leashes and crates to each student.

The skrewt on the other end of the rope Harry held writhed against the ground, trying to remove the rope. When this failed, it tensed up. Beside it, sensing danger, so too did Harry. A roar of fire exploded from the rear of the skrewt and propelled it forward at an alarming rate, nearing bowling one of the girls over.

“Sorry,” Harry gasped, though it was hard to talk as he was jerked forward yet again as the beast tried to leap out of the rope.

Hagrid finished passing out the ‘class materials’ and returned to Harry’s side.

“So, yer our champion,” he said proudly.

“One of them,” Harry hastily corrected him. Then, for good measure, he added, “but only because I can’t get out of it.”

The skrewt that was walking Harry around the clearing blasted off again and Harry stumbled after it.

“Still no idea who put yeh in fer it?” Hagrid asked, walking forward with Harry.

“Not a clue,” Harry said bitterly. If only he’d had the map back... but Lupin still hadn’t written a reply.

“I hear yer friend Ron doesn’t believe yeh didn’t enter yerself, but I do... an’ I think Dumbledore does too,” Hagrid said uncertainly.

Harry’s response was cut off as the skrewt again jerked him around, wrenching Harry’s shoulder in the process. He winced. “It’s a good thing there’s no Quidditch this term,” he muttered, thinking about the difficulty of handling a broom with an injured shoulder.

“Wha’s that?” Hagrid asked, looking confused.

“I think I’ve hurt my shoulder,” Harry said, slipping the loop of rope he’d been holding off one wrist and onto the other. The skrewt took off again and Harry had to run several paces to keep from falling on his face and being dragged through the mud. Somewhere behind him, a yelp followed by a squelch, followed by colorful cursing told him someone else hadn’t been fast enough on their feet.

“I’m sure yeh’ll be right as rain in the mornin’,” Hagrid replied merrily.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Hagrid, are you sure these things are safe for a bunch of kids?  I mean, I was pretty badly burnt when they were still the size of a banana and now they’re huge, still growing, and they’ve got armor plating. You said they had manticore in them, right?  Are you sure their stings aren’t lethal?”

“Nah, they’ve got me a few times and weren’t nothin’ but a scratch,” Hagrid said jovially.

“— and to, you know, normal human children?” Harry pressed.

Hagrid looked quite perplexed by the question. “I’m sure they’re fine, Harry,” he said.

Harry, whose own skrewt was back to wriggling in the grass for the moment, turned to consider the state of the rest of the class. “Hagrid, I know you’re the professor and everything, and I went along with the hippogriffs and the acromantulas and I didn’t even tell anyone about the baby dragon, but this... I’m getting worried about these.”

Hagrid shook a hand the size of a dinner plate in the air dismissively. “All my classes are doin’ this unit and I ain’t gettin’ the lip even from the third years that I’m getting from you and yours. Get on with yer assignment, Harry.”

Harry sagged dejectedly as Hagrid turned and walked away.


	22. Rules for Rita

The rest of Harry’s week was no better. Ron and Malfoy could have been comparing notes for all their snide comments seemed to echo each other at times. By Friday though, Harry had hopes that it was dwindling as the novelty of his position wore out. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Luna drifted dreamily into the Potions classroom during the double Potions class Harry, Ron, and Malfoy all shared, and walked right up to Professor Snape’s desk.

“Hello, Professor Snape,” she said dreamily. “Harry Potter is needed upstairs for the Weighing of the Wands.”

“Mr Potter has another hour of Potions to complete,” Snape said with unusual patience for an interruption to his class. “He will come upstairs when this class is finished.”

“I’m sorry, Professor Snape. The ceremony is starting soon. Mr Ollivander is already here. All the champions have to come.”

Snape scowled. “Fine. Potter, take your things and get out.”

Harry turned to Hermione. “Will you be alright to finish our potion alone?”

“Of course,” she whispered back confidently. Already, their antidote seemed well on track to perfection.

Harry nodded and quickly collected his things, packed them into his schoolbag, and joined Luna at the front of the class.

“I’ll show you the way, Harry Potter,” Luna said, smiling serenely. Then at the door, she turned back and said, “Thank you, Professor Snape.”

Snape merely went back to work. Luna, still smiling, turned back around and walked out. She paused to close the classroom door behind Harry, then led him up to a first floor corridor. Harry opened the door and, for some reason, expected to see a forest clearing inside. Instead, it was a regular classroom only the desks had been pushed back against the walls and a long table had been brought in and placed up front, covered in velvet, and a few rows of chairs set up facing it. Bagman had claimed a seat in the first row. Rita Skeeter was leaning provocatively over Bagman, her quite attractive bosom peeking out of the top of her low-cut magenta robes.

The other champions were already present and lingering in the back. Fleur was sitting on one of the desks, her long legs crossed prettily at the ankles, her hair sparkling in the light from the courtyard windows high on the wall. Cedric was standing in front of her, talking to her politely. Krum was silent and scowling in a corner behind her. Rita’s cameraman was loitering near the front, but he eyes kept darting to the sun on Fleur’s hair. Harry pushed past him to join the other champions.

“Ah, Mr Potter!” Bagman had spotted him and came bounding over. “Here he is, champion number 4!  There’s someone I want to introduce you to, Harry. This is Rita Skeeter. She’s doing a small piece on the Tournament for the _Daily Prophet_ ,” Bagman said.

Rita pushed her way in between Harry and Cedric, her back to the other champions. “Maybe not such a small piece, Ludo,” she said. “I wonder if we could have a little word before we start?” she asked. “You know... youngest champion... to add a bit of color.”

“I don’t see why not,” Bagman said before Harry could politely refuse.

Rita, her eyes sparkling, as she leaned in towards Harry, said, “Excellent.” Harry thought she was going to turn on the charm, but then her crimson-taloned fingers closed around his upper arm and she pulled him towards the door. “Let’s just get out of this noise.”

Harry thought she wanted to talk to him about his treatment of her as a beetle, so he allowed himself to be steered out into the corridor. But she didn’t stop there. She took him down the corridor and choose a narrow door.

 _Shite, she’s strong!_  Harry thought as he tried to pull out of her grip and put his foot down.

Rita opened the door and tried to pull him inside.

“I don’t hang around in broom cupboards with beautiful women,” Harry said when he saw Rita’s chosen location was a broom closet. He hoped the flattery would keep her sharp tongue sheathed despite his being uncooperative.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she chortled. “I just have a few questions for my article.”

“Look, lady, if you want to talk about what I need to keep the Ministry from finding out about your animagus form, we can do that right here in this spare classroom,” Harry said, pointing to the door across the corridor from the cupboard. “If you want quotes for your article, we’re going back into the ceremony and you can interview all of the champions at the same time — very convenient you know, having us all in one place.”

Rita blanched. “Y-y-you’re blackmailing me, Mr Potter?”

“Not at all,” Harry said, perfectly civil. “I’m setting some ground rules. You stay away from me and my friends in your beetle form. If you want to approach us for information, you’ll have to do it like anyone else: openly, as a human. Also, I know what libel is, Ms Skeeter, so don’t try it on me.”

“And if I d-don’t want to follow these r-rules?” she stammered.

“Then I’m sure there are one or two people on Minister Fudge’s staff who would love to know how you get your information and at least one of them is a real sadist,” Harry threatened. Occasionally, he still looked down at the back of his writing hand and was shocked not to see _I shall not tell lies_ permanently etched into his flesh.

Rita took a deep, shuddering breath. “I suppose I have no choice then,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“Be happy, Ms Skeeter,” Harry said soberly. “For this information, I could have asked a lot more. You’re lucky I’m not as unscrupulous as you.” Then he turned on his heels to go back up the corridor to the room where the other champions were still waiting when he came face to beard with Dumbledore. Ollivander lingered close behind him. They must have been on their way to the ceremony. Just down the corridor at the appropriate room, others were arriving for the ceremony too.

“Quite an interesting place for an interview,” Ollivander remarked curiously.

“Dumbledore!” Rita exclaimed delightedly. “How are you?” She shifted her crocodile skin bag to her left hand and used her right to push her polka-dot glasses up her nose. “Did you happen to see my piece this summer about the International Confederation of Wizards?”

“I did. It was... enchantingly nasty,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.”

“Oh my!” Ollivander exclaimed, looking far more offended on Dumbledore’s behalf then Dumbledore himself did in this exchange.

“At any rate,” Dumbledore said, “The Weighing of the Wands is about to begin and it cannot take place with one of our champions hidden in a cupboard.”

Harry heard Dumbledore’s words and knew he was talking to Rita, but really they made Harry stop and think about his childhood. Nothing about his life could really have started while the Boy Who Lived was hidden in a cupboard. And Dumbledore had counted on that. A sour expression clouded Harry’s face.

They re-entered the classroom that had been prepared for the ceremony. Harry took his place among the champions where they stood against the back wall. Cedric, believing Harry’s expression reflected a poor interview with Rita, gave him a sympathetic look.

Harry could see that the first row was now occupied by the Triwizard judges, excepting Dumbledore who was still seeing that Mr Ollivander got settled behind the velvet-covered table. When Dumbledore was assured by Mr Ollivander that he had everything he needed and was ready to begin, Dumbledore turned and introduced Mr Ollivander to the small crowd of champions and judges.

Then the champions were called forward one by one for Mr Ollivander to inspect their wands. He examined them visually for condition and inquired about their materials and make, then he performed a test spell. He quickly found each wand to be in good working order. But just when it looked like the ceremony was finished, Bagman leapt up and loudly reminded everyone that he’d promised Rita photos for her article.

The photographs turned out to be much more complicated than the ceremony itself had been. Even once the photographer sorted out the difficulties of a group portrait that included both one fairly short fourth year and the imposingly tall Madame Maxime, there seemed to be some real tension between the photographer and Rita. The photographer was very keen to put Fleur front and center of the photo while Rita wanted Harry up front. The photographer eventually won out when Rita, used to having things her way, got fed up with arguing and went to bodily rearrange the group. She got within two paces of Harry before she noticed the look he was giving her. She froze mid-stride and went very pale, then scurried back to the photographer and, smiling a very grim smile, suggested they simply put all the champions in the front row, equal, as a compromise. This was apparently acceptable and the photos were taken at last. Afterward, Dumbledore and Crouch saw Ollivander out and Rita leapt to corral all the champions before they could disperse.

“Just a few questions for the _Daily Prophet_ , Britain’s premier wizarding newspaper,” she said cheerfully, placing herself firmly between the champions and escape.

“So what made you decide to enter the Tournament, Harry. And don’t worry about getting in trouble — our readers love a rebel,” Rita said. She seemed to have recovered herself in the course of the ceremony.

“I didn’t,” Harry said simply. “What about you, Cedric?”

“Oh, I wanted to represent my school and my house and show everyone what I can do,” Cedric said.

“Krum?” Harry inquired.

“Headmaster Karkaroff vanted me to. He believes I am a credit to his school,” Viktor replied.

Rita’s quill scratched away quite independent of her will. She looked forlornly down at the notes it was taking, then back at Harry who was clearly steering this interview — and there was nothing she could do about it.

“What about you, Delacour?” Harry asked.

“For the glory, and the prize-money, of course,” she said, throwing her hair back so it shined radiantly.

“So you’re confident you’ll win?” Harry asked her, knowing she’d appreciate the opening.

“Absolument,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile that the photographer who, mesmerized by her beauty, hurriedly snapped a photo.

“Do you think you’ll win, Harry?” Rita interjected.

“I think I’ll consider it a personal victory if I just make it through all the tasks alive and with all my limbs still attached,” Harry said, forcing a stiff smile.

“And how do you think your parents would feel about you competing?”

Harry couldn’t keep the grimace off his face. If his past experiences could be believed, his parents wouldn’t have been too bothered by the danger as long as he did Gryffindor proud. But he couldn’t say that. So he said, “I have no idea. I didn’t get much of a chance to know them.”

“Mine are very proud of me,” Cedric cut in before Rita could press Harry further. He shot Harry a concerned look and then took over Harry’s job of steering the conversation as Harry’s thoughts turned dark and his attention wavered.

That night, Harry couldn’t get to sleep, as worried as he was about the article. He’d messed up. He didn’t even know what he’d said towards the end of the interview. His mind had been elsewhere just when he’d needed to stay on top of things. He was angry with himself and afraid he’d screwed up and he’d have to wait for the article to come out to know how badly. He lay awake in bed for some time that night before at last falling into terrible dreams. In them, his mother made it clear how she would feel. She was angry that he hadn’t entered himself especially since, as an 18-year-old in spirit if not in body, he could have at least tried to cross the Age Line. And then she started in about his friends turning on him and said he was surely going to get someone killed. “Of course, it won’t be you that gets killed,” she sneered in a very Petunia-like voice.

“Harry, get up!  You’re missing breakfast!” Neville’s voice mercifully cut through the dream and Harry jerked awake.

He took some sharp breaths and scrubbed at his face. “Damn you, Skeeter,” he growled under his breath. She’d just had to bring his parents up.

“Harry!” Neville shouted through Harry’s curtains again.

“I’m up!” Harry called back, and reluctantly faced the day.

But when he entered the Great Hall, he immediately wished he hadn’t. Skeeter’s article was out. Far from the scant column inches of the report of the selection of the champions, Skeeter’s article on the Weighing of the Wands had a photo and spanned several columns. She had turned a simple ceremony into a melodrama but as Harry scanned it, ignoring the whispers and stares and pointing of the other students, he did breathe a little sigh of relief that at least she hadn’t made him out as too much of a victim or, worse still, a villain.

She’d cast aspersions on Dumbledore for failing to deliver on his promise to protect the younger students and she’d done it while cleanly cutting any mention Harry had made that he hadn’t entered himself in the Tournament. Of course, she’d mentioned his parents deaths and claimed he still got quite upset thinking about them — well that was true enough, though not for the reasons she might have thought. She’d somehow found out about Ron’s antagonism too and made mention of it. Ron hadn’t made any effort to be subtle, nor was he now.

Red-faced and fuming, Ron got up from the Gryffindor table, threw Seamus’ copy of the paper down and stormed across the hall to thrust a handful of Knuts at Draco Malfoy. “I’ll have one of your badges,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure you can spare the coppers, Weasley?” Malfoy drawled, even as he reached into his schoolbag and drew out a Potter Stinks badge. “I would not like to be responsible if your parents starved.”

Ron sneered and snatched the badge from Malfoy, turned on his heels and marched back to the Gryffindor table.

That day, Ron wore his badge and an air of injured pride but if he thought he might inspire the Gryffindors to his side, he was sorely mistaken. They might not know or care what had come between Harry and Ron but Harry was their champion and they took offense at one of their own wearing such a petty slogan as _Potter Stinks_. By the end of that first day alone, Ron was a cauldron about the boil over. He stomped around their dorm getting ready for bed, threw things and slammed doors and said not one word to anyone.

Harry had nightmares again that night that left him feeling drained all day. He was so distracted he couldn’t pay attention in his morning classes. He started thinking about the Resurrection Stone again. He knew it hadn’t worked when he’d tried it before, and he knew that there wasn’t any way to know if it had been damaged or if his parents just didn’t want to see him, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought he had to try. Maybe it would work this time. It had to. It just had to.

He skipped lunch. He wasn’t hungry. He just wanted to see his parents and maybe Sirius too.

“Kreacher,” he called as soon as his dorm room door shut behind him.

The elf popped in beside him. “Master is needing Kreacher?”

“Yes. Bring me the ring horcrux, please.”

Kreacher left to obey immediately but a feeling of dread rose up in Harry. This would fail and he’d feel even more miserable. He knew that, but he clung to the desperate hope that it would turn out alright. When Kreacher reappeared, Harry practically snatched the ring from his spindly fingers.

Kreacher looked mildly offended. “Kreacher is wishing to visit Dobby,” Kreacher said.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, fine,” Harry said distractedly, his eyes on the ring. Harry didn’t even notice Kreacher pop away. His heart was racing and his hands shook. He wanted this to work so badly, but as he held the ring in his hand, he felt nothing different, no sign to raise his hopes that something was different this time. He hesitated to touch the stone. Wasn’t there some old proverb or something that the definition of a fool was to do the same thing over and over again and expect a different result?  And what if he touched the stone and felt some small tingle of magic that he hadn’t felt before, something that told him it ought to be working again, but his parents didn’t appear?  He’d be devastated. He just didn’t think he could bare it, not when he was already so exhausted.

“Winky,” Harry called, his voice cracking with emotion.

She quickly responded. “Yes, Master Harry?” she said.

He looked up at her through eyes he only just realized were wet. “Take this back to 12. Put it somewhere safe. I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“Yes, Master,” Winky said, taking the ring. She disappeared with a pop.

Harry sat there for a long time without the will to even get up from the floor. _I’m such a coward_ , he thought. Harry dragged himself to bed with its Gryffindor red curtains. He didn’t deserve them. He wasn’t brave enough for Gryffindor. A Gryffindor would have been brave enough to try. Harry lay there, bitterly unhappy until his dormmates returned from lunch. They chattered happily and bustled around the room, but he was lost in his own thoughts. He didn’t want to think about what he’d dream tonight. Maybe it was time to ask for another potion — even something as simple as Dreamless Sleep would help. Harry checked his watch. There might be just enough time to catch Snape in his office before dinner.

“Professor?” Harry called, knocking on the door frame.

Snape’s office door stood open and Snape was shifting stacks of parchment around on his desk. Snape looked up. “Come in and close the door,” he said. When Harry had, he continued, “Mr Potter, I thought you understood the importance of the detention charade.”

“I did. I do. But I need something for my nightmares. They’re getting awful again. I’m sorry,” Harry said wearily.

“Sit,” Snape said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. He waited for Harry to take the seat before continuing. “I would like to hear about these nightmares. They can be managed with potions but only infrequently so it would be to your benefit if something can be done by talking about them.”

Harry went very tense. There was no way he could explain it to Snape. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Snape scowled. “Potter, ‘talking about it’ is the most important element of treatment for Spell Shock. Your dreams are your mind trying to make sense of what happened.”

“I don’t think it will help,” Harry said firmly.

Snape said, “According to my reading on the subject, when a wizard is put in a traumatic situation, the struggle for life overwhelms the brain, taking over all functions including those which form long term memories. Instead, the information that ought to form memories of the event or events gets diverted to those areas of the brain which tend to respond with increased efficacy under the influence of adrenaline — namely certain sensory centers and the stress response area. They process and store a picture of the events in their own way, as snippets of experience. Later, once the crisis has passed, those centers struggle to contain such unusual stores of information but so too does the memory center struggle to comprehend them because they lack the narrative form which that part of the brain uses to catalogue its information. As these different centers of the brain try to adapt the stored information, it is only natural that certain symptoms arise — the experience of phantom sensations and befuddled stress responses and also of vivid dreams as the brain seeks to construct the narrative it needs to relocate the troubling stores.”

Harry chewed on his lip as he took this in. At last he nodded. So those times he’d felt oddly cold or smelt the overpowering smell of blood where there was none, those had been this. And there had been dreams before that could have been too, but not the dreams he’d been having these last few nights. “These were just normal nightmares, sir,” he said. “Not vivid like some of the others.”

“Tell me, Potter, what criteria would you use to decide if a nightmare is vivid or not?” Snape asked skeptically.

“Not waking up screaming and pawing at hands that aren’t there’s a start,” Harry muttered, thinking of the dream of the inferi he’d had over the summer.

Snape snorted. “That is hardly—”

“You just said sensory memories and phantom sensations!” Harry snapped.

Snape shut his mouth. After a moment, he nodded, but he let the silence stretch and his eyes leave Harry’s to wander the office shelves. “Alright. Not vivid then.”

“So can I have some Dreamless Sleep Potion then?” Harry asked beseechingly.

“No. I venture your stress responses are difficult at this time — undoubtedly as a result of the Tournament and your conflict with Mr Weasley, yes?”

Harry nodded. “And the article in the _Prophet_ ,” he said.

“Ah,” Snape said. “Well, I do have something. It can be... unpredictable. I have found it entirely unsuitable for my own use, but Madam Pomfrey believes we should not discard it in your case offhand. It should give you pleasant dreams.”

“But it didn’t for you?” Harry asked worriedly.

Snape’s expression clouded. “No.”

Harry got the sense that wasn’t the full answer. “If I’m supposed to take this, I want to know if it might do something bad to me.”

“Its principal fault is that it isn’t always the best judge of what is pleasant and what has greater emotional significance beyond the selected narrative. And there is the possibility, particularly in young men, that ‘pleasant’ may turn into explicit.”

“Oh. I guess I’ll try it. I’d like to stay in my dormitory though, not the Hospital Ward,” he said, going a bit red.

“Acceptable, but I must insist you visit Madam Pomfrey tomorrow. As I said, the potion may stir up the emotions. If it does, Madam Pomfrey can help you deal with that and if it doesn’t, then it will be a very short session.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed.

And the next day, Harry had a new bounce in his step as he reported as requested.

“I had a great dream!  Sure beats nightmares,” Harry said grinning. “I was flying and there was this angry dragon chasing me.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Madam Pomfrey gasped.

“Well, yeah,” Harry considered, “but you see, it felt really good. It was like winning a prize or something. The dragon got close a couple of times, but I always got away.”

“Hmm,” Madam Pomfrey hummed noncommittally.

Harry threw up his hands. “I liked it. I guess that’s a bit stupid though.”

“No, not stupid,” Poppy said. “Strange, perhaps, but maybe its a side effect of the potion, that even scary dreams seem nice?  I think we should speak to Professor Snape about this.”

“Do you think I can use this potion more often?  I mean, I feel so happy today,” Harry said.

“I’m afraid not. As with most potions that produce artificial emotions, this one is addictive so you won’t be able to use it more than once a fortnight. But the feelings of the dream are supposed to linger throughout the day and you may get some continued benefit from it tonight as well.”

Harry’s face fell. “Oh. I just thought... I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Harry. But you know the potions are only treating the symptoms. They won’t actually help these things to stop happening in the long run.”

Harry nodded. “Snape said.”

“Will you tell me what you were dreaming about night before last that made you go to Professor Snape?”

“I don’t want to,” he said, then he forced a smile. “I’d like to enjoy this feeling while it lasts.”

“Alright. You run along then, but be ready to tell Professor Snape about it when next you meet.”

Harry didn’t worry as he left that he would have to because he was certain it would all have been forgotten by then. There’d be the First Task to talk about, for one. Some simple nightmares would be unimportant. He was certain he would not be made to talk about his parents so he refused to worry about it.


	23. The First Task

Harry stopped in his tracks just outside the doors to the Great Hall and felt an ache in his chest just looking in at them all. Since the happy echoes of the potion-induced good dreams had left, he’d been back to feeling quite down again. And alone. Sometimes he’d look at his fellow students and feel like they were a different species entirely. Life was so simple for them — no one expecting anything extraordinary, no heavy secret that couldn’t be shared weighing them down. They could enjoy a Friday morning, laugh and gossip, worry over nothing more serious than their next exam or if the person they fancied might ask them to Hogsmeade. When would he stop feeling like this, like he was on the outside, looking in?

Hermione looked up and caught his eyes. No, he wasn’t being fair. Hermione hid it well, handled it well, but he knew the weight she carried on her shoulders. And Cedric was facing the Tournament too.

“Come here, Harry,” Hermione mouthed across the hall, beckoning him to the Hufflepuff table and the seat beside her.

Stiffly, Harry obeyed.

“Ron’s fighting with everyone at Gryffindor this morning and I’d had enough of it but Cedric was kind enough to invite us to join him,” she explained when he got close enough.

“Nasty business that,” Cedric said, nodding towards Ron who was sulking beneath the glares of his tablemates.

“Cedric’s had a wonderful idea though. Tell him, Cedric,” Hermione encouraged.

“Ah, well, we’ll have to wait and see what they’ve decided but I invited Delacour and Krum to join us for breakfast too. I hope it might be a regular thing, every Friday, perhaps.”

“Won’t that be great, Harry?  It will set just the sort of example I think the Sorting Hat wanted from us — solidarity and standing strong together, mutual respect and cooperation, not just between the houses but between schools as well,” Hermione said enthusiastically.

“Er, yes, it’s does sound like a good idea,” Harry said, though he sounded a bit dazed in the face of Hermione’s energetic endorsement. He served himself some breakfast.

Around him, children chattered and laughed. Delacour and Krum did join them and Harry tried to be polite and cheerful but his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t even notice that Hedwig was circling above him until Hermione elbowed him and pointed it out. He held out an arm and she landed, smacking him hard with a wing as she did.

“Sorry, Hedwig,” he murmured to her. He took the letter tied to her leg and fed her a bit of smoked fish from his plate, then he sent her away. The note she’d brought was a short one. Hagrid wanted to see him at midnight that night, said he should wear his cloak and asked that he burn the note when he’d read it. Harry looked up at the High Table and wondered what Hagrid could want in the middle of the night. He pocketed the note — he’d have to burn it later when it wouldn’t be noticed and thought suspicious.

“I think I should head back to Hufflepuff and get ready for my morning classes,” Cedric said suddenly, pushing back his plate and sighing contentedly. “Shall we do this again next week?”

“Yes, please,” Hermione said.

Harry nodded. Krum shrugged and Fleur, when pinned with the questioning looks of the others, also agreed.

Hermione too seemed ready to be getting on with the day. Harry followed her towards the tower, his mind wandering. They were more than halfway there before he realized Hermione was talking to him.

“Harry, are you listening?” Hermione demanded.

“What?  Sorry, no. I was thinking,” Harry said, dragging his attention back.

“Something important?” she asked, looking a little worried.

“No. What were you saying?” Harry said.

“Just that Cedric’s offered to let me tag along with them on the Hogsmeade trip this weekend, since you won’t be able to go and Ron’s being an awful boar.”

“That’s great,” Harry said halfheartedly.

“I wish you could come,” Hermione said.

“Well,” Harry said, sighing, “we both know how unlikely that is to happen.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile, then hurried him on to collect their books and get to History of Magic.

Somehow, Harry got through the day though he felt like he was in a daze. He thought he’d have liked to talk to Snape, but he hadn’t wanted to risk earning a real detention in Potions that afternoon, not when he had to meet Hagrid that night. So he sat alone in the Common Room after all the others had gone to bed. Time dragged on painfully slowly, but at last it was time. He covered himself with his cloak and snuck out to see why Hagrid wanted him.

And an hour later, he returned again, removed his cloak, and threw himself into the very same chair. _Dragons. Bloody dragons!_   _What am I going to do?_  His mind raced as he stared into the banked fire for a long time. He did remember that dream he’d had, of flying with the dragon. Maybe there was something to that. He wouldn’t have a broom, but they’d done Summoning Charms in Charms class a few weeks ago. He’d been instantly good at them. He was sure he could summon his broom, even from the castle and he was a good flier, though probably he could use some practice since he hadn’t flown since the last match of last season. That would wait for tomorrow though, and he’d have to tell Cedric in the morning too — everyone else knew and it was only fair. Now, he thought he must try to get some sleep.

*****

Harry turned his broom towards the exit just as half a dozen dragon handlers jumped the barriers to surround and subdue the Short-Snout. Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody, and Hagrid were all waiting at the exit beaming with delight.

“Well done, Harry!” Professor McGonagall cheered as he landed.

“Thanks,” he said breathlessly. He was grinning ear to ear and felt so happy his chest seemed ready to burst. This was so much better even than the dream had felt.

Harry was ushered into the medical tent then by Professor McGonagall’s no-nonsense manner. There’d be time for his scores after Madam Pomfrey had checked him over, she said. He didn’t argue. He’d caught just a bit too much heat a few times there and might need some burn paste. And he wanted to see Madam Pomfrey.

He brushed aside the tent flap with the hand holding his broom.

“Thank Merlin,” Madam Pomfrey gasped. “Jump up and let’s have a look at you.”

Harry took the bed in the nearest cubicle, sat on the edge and set his broom and the golden egg down behind him, then carefully started to unbutton his robes. The discovery of a bloom of melted and charred wool at the back didn’t really surprise him but it certainly made Madam Pomfrey unhappy. He removed his shirt and turned his burned shoulder towards her.

"Dragons!” she said, in a disgusted tone as she cleaned the burned shoulder and dabbed a thick orange burn paste on. "Last year dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school next?  You’re very lucky...this is quite tame... it could have been so much worse.”

She finished spreading the paste and then removed her medical gloves. “Sit there for a few minutes to let that paste do its job. Then you can put your robes back on and go get your score.” She bustled out of his cubicle and went to prepare another.

The thundering footfalls of his dragon could be heard outside as it was moved out of the ring. Soon they’d be bringing Krum’s Common Welsh Green in. Harry fidgeted, impatient for his score and buzzing with adrenaline. After what seemed like forever, Madam Pomfrey returned, banished the last of the paste from his shoulder and pronounced him fit. Harry leapt from the bed and pulled his shirt on. He didn’t bother with the burnt robes. He grabbed his broom and the egg and trotted out of the tent.

Outside, Professor McGonagall was still standing at the entrance to the arena. “This way, Potter,” she said. “They’ll announce your scores before the next contestant competes.” She led him to the edge of the arena and there, on the opposite side, sat five judges in raised seats draped in gold cloth. The first judge, Madame Maxime, raised her wand and from its tip flowed a long, silver ribbon that rose in the air and twined with itself to form the number 7.

“What are the marks out of then?” Harry asked Professor McGonagall.

“10,” she said, eyes still on the judges.

Mr Crouch came next with a score of 8 that made Harry stand up a bit straighter.

Next, Dumbledore who put up a 7.

Ludo Bagman — 10.

"Ten?” said Harry in disbelief. "But he hasn’t seen what the others will do _and_ I got hurt....What’s he playing at?”

"Hush, Harry,” Professor McGonagall scolded. There was still one judge left.

Karkaroff raised his wand and gave Harry a 5. Some in the crowd boo-ed and shouted at the low mark.

“37 out of 50, Mr Potter. Excellent work, indeed,” Professor McGonagall said. “You can go back in and lay down or watch the other competitors from here.”

“I’ll watch,” he said. He looked out towards the stands and tried to pick Hermione out in the crowd, but the best he could do at this distance was find the sea of maroon and gold that was his housemates still cheering over his score.

Suddenly off to their left, an enormous roar startled Harry and he fumbled the egg trying to draw his wand. The egg opened on its hinges and a screeching wail began to play from within. Krum’s Common Welsh Green charged into the arena and its handlers had to act quickly to secure its chains. Feeling a bit silly and ashamed at his reaction, Harry knelt and picked up the egg, snapping it shut and cutting the terrible noise off abruptly.

“Alright, Potter?” a gruff voice called from a few feet to his right. Harry turned and saw Moody eying him.

“Y-yes,” he replied. “Just a little jumpy.”

“Understandable,” Moody said, then turned back to watch as Bagman called for Krum.

Krum emerged from the champions’ tent and shuffled into the ring to the crowd’s applause. The dragon swept its huge head from side to side searching. It’s gaze fell on Krum and it spun its hole body around to face him. He raised his wand and the crowd fell silent. The dragon crouched low to the ground, poised on all fours, staring him down. Then red spell-light shot from Krum’s wand and hit the dragon right in the eyes. It roared in pain and fury, pawing at its face and rearing back on its hind legs. Its wings unfurled and its tail thrashed as it stumbled blindly backwards.

Krum darted forwards while the dragon was distracted. He wove in much closer than Harry would have dared and twice he was nearly smashed under foot. Suddenly, the dragon roared again and slammed down on all four feet again, its eyes were squeezed shut still but it swept its head wildly from side to side and managed to catch Krum, bowling him over the edge of the nest, in among the eggs. The dragons nose twitched, questing, and it bared its teeth. Krum snatched the egg and dove out of the nest, rolling and finding his feet and running just as the dragon charged blindly.

The whistle blew signaling Krum’s success but for a terrible moment, Harry, and the crowd too, thought Krum was a goner anyway. The dragon barreled toward him just as the handlers jumped into the ring. Spells were shouted, but not before the dragon ran right through the nest, smashing several eggs and shooting a burst of flame that Krum barely escaped by throwing himself to the ground. The handlers’ spells hit the dragon together and it tottered and stumbled two more steps before it fell over limply. The crowd breathed out, then broke into applause. Krum got unsteadily to his feet and staggered out of the ring. Professor McGonagall quickly directed him to the medical tent.

When Krum came out again, his scores were shown. Harry waited with baited breath, adding them up. 37. Harry gasped. He was tied with Krum!

The Chinese Fireball was brought in next and Cedric was called out of the tent. Even at this distance, Harry could tell Cedric looked ill. But he drew his wand and performed an exceptional transfiguration that had Professor McGonagall looking very pleased. The rock he’d turned into a dog barked and growled, drawing the dragon’s attention as Cedric slipped away, attempting a flanking maneuver on the enormous beast. He was being cautious, freezing every time it looked like the dragon might still be keeping an eye on him, but still he drew closer and closer to the nest. He was just steps away, but the dragon suddenly realized the dog for the distraction it was and turned on Cedric, spraying fire just as Cedric’s hands closed over the golden egg. Harry gasped. Some girls in the stands screamed. Cedric only just managed to stay out in front of the blast by running as fast as he could for the exit, the dragon pulling at its chain to follow. He made it with some nasty burns but alive. Professor McGonagall helped him stumble into the medical tent.

He didn’t emerge again for quite some time. Harry was really starting to worry when the tent flap suddenly jerked aside and Cedric, his face still smeared with orange burn paste, appeared. Professor McGonagall hovered nearby as Cedric watched his scores displayed. 6 from Madam Maxime. 7 from Mr Crouch. 8 from Dumbledore. 6 from Bagman. 4 from Karkaroff. “31,” Cedric sighed.

“Respectable, but I think they took points off for you injuries,” Professor McGonagall said. “Your transfiguration was well done though.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Cedric said, then returned to the medical tent as the last dragon was brought into the ring.

Delacour was the only champion that remained and this dragon, as it snorted and lashed its spiked tail aggressively, seemed by far the nastiest of the four. It laid down and curled its clawed front legs protectively around the nest as Fleur stepped into the arena. She looked the dragon over and hesitated, but then she took a deep breath, stood up straighter, and cast a spell. At first, it wasn’t clear what the spell did, particularly laying as it was with its back to Harry, but then its head sunk to the ground and lolled to one side. She’d somehow managed to put it to sleep. Fleur crept closer, hesitated, and went closer still, until she could reach out and touch its front legs. The crowd gasped as she did the unthinkable and climbed up and onto the dragon’s front legs, leaned down to pick the golden egg up from the nest.

Then two things happened at once — the whistle blew and Fleur lost her footing and slipped back to the ground, stumbling to keep her feet under her. It wasn’t clear if one or both were responsible, but the dragon woke up. Fleur was much too close and the fall seemed to have twisted her ankle. She limped as fast as she could away, but the dragon lifted one forefoot and batted her. She flew off her feet and landed in a heap on the ground, crumpled like a ragdoll, pinned between two enormous talons. The dragon handlers had already leapt into action when the whistle blew and their restraint spells hit the beast before it could do any more damage, but the crowd and Harry feared it might already be too late. But then she moved, cried out, and fell back. Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall hurried to get her onto a stretcher and into the medical tent. Harry tried to go back into the tent, but McGonagall stopped him and Madam Pomfrey shouted for Cedric and Krum to leave too. The three of them hovered outside the tent anxiously, waiting for news as the noise from the crowd grew behind them. After several minutes, loud voices could be heard inside.

“Someone will tell you your scores later,” Madam Pomfrey could be heard saying.

“Non!  I do not vant zem zhinking I am badly ’urt!” Delacour protested.

“You are badly hurt!” Madam Pomfrey argued.

“I vill be fine een a few hours,” Delacour protested dismissively.

“Tough girl,” Cedric whispered, impressed.

There was silence, then Madam Pomfrey said, “Alright, but then you’re to lay on a stretcher and be carried to the Hospital Ward without argument afterwards.”

“Zank you,” Delacour said gratefully. Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall and all four champions went out to see Delacour awarded 26 points to the relieved applause of the crowd. Madam Pomfrey then conjured her a stretcher and took her inside. The crowds were coming down from the stands too and Cedric and Krum both drifted away. Harry headed for the school too but tried to spot Hermione or Neville or Luna in the crowd as he went.

“Harry, over here!” someone shouted.

He turned and was surprised to find Ginny waving at him and trying to push through the crowd.

“You were amazing, Harry,” she exclaimed when she’d made it over to him. “I know Ron’s being a bit of a prat, but I believe you about not entering yourself.”

“Thanks,” Harry said with a smile. Together, they headed up the hill towards the castle.

She blushed and looked up at him through fluttering eyelashes.

“Oh, Harry!  There you are!” Hermione called, running over to them and throwing herself at Harry.

He caught her and returned her hug. She was shaking.

“I was so scared. Do you know how close you came to getting eaten?” she gasped.

“I’m alright, Hermione,” he said. “And Delacour’s going to be fine too.”

Hermione let go and fell into step beside him, all the while, casting her eyes over him, trying to spot any injuries.

Ginny huffed beside her in annoyance. “She should have known better than to climb on that dragon.”

“I thought she was very brave,” Harry said. “And anyway, the Horntail was the only one that guarded the nest like that. If she’d got any of the others, it probably would have worked perfectly.”

“Well she wasn’t as good as you, obviously. You’re winning,” Ginny said dismissively.

“Tied with Krum for the lead, actually,” Harry said.

“Yes, but only because Karkaroff’s biased. You were obviously the best,” Ginny said, flashing him a huge smile.

“Well—” Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

“Just say ‘thank you’ Harry. God, you’re so modest,” Hermione teased.

Harry smiled a little at her, then turned to Ginny. “Alright. Thank you, Ginny. I’m glad you think I was the best.”

Hermione rolled her eyes though she was still smiling at him. “It’ll have to do.”

“So, err, is Ron around?” Harry asked Ginny.

“Somewhere, I expect. I hope watching you almost get eaten by a dragon has made him come to his senses.”

“So do I, Ginny,” Harry said. But it seemed it wasn’t to be as Ron’s behavior continued unaltered that evening and over the next few days, it truly seemed that he’d lost Ron’s friendship for good.

*****

Delacour was still in the Hospital Wing that Friday when Cedric again invited the champions and Hermione to join him at the Hufflepuff table for breakfast so when next Harry had some time free, he went to visit her. He found her sitting up in bed with a book on her lap.

“Hello,” Harry said. “How are you feeling?”

“’ello, Potter. You are looking for Madame Pomfrey?”

“No. I just came to make sure you were alright,” Harry said.

“Zat is sweet. I am very well. My...” she gestured to her side and waved a hand in the air, at a loss for the right word.

“Ribs?” Harry supplied.

“Yes, and also my head, zey need time but Madame Pomfrey said I will be okay in one or two days.”

“Oh, well good,” Harry said standing there awkwardly.

“Yes, eet iz,” she replied. For a moment, silence reigned, then she said, “Since you are ’ere, maybe I could ask you some questions about zhis book?” she asked, holding up the Bagshot text Hogwarts used for History of Magic class.

“Sure,” Harry said with a shrug, “but I should warn you, it’s not my best class.”

“You would like to sit?” she said, gesturing towards the chair by her bed.

Harry smiled and took the seat.

“Zhis book, it ends in 1896. No one has said what book iz next. Eet iz a series, no?”

“I’m only a fourth year, but as far as I know, that’s the only textbook for History of Magic,” Harry said.

Delacour shook her head. “But of course zhere must be a book for ze 20th century,” she insisted. “You did not learn modern ’istory een first year?”

Harry shrugged and shook his head.

She looked frustrated. “Maybe eet is because zhese things you already know. You can tell me, ze book says your governement ’as ze Why-zen-ga-mut who eez either ’ereditary or gifted zhere place and ze ’eads of departments who are professionals, yes?  And ze Ministers for Magic of ’istory, zey were chosen also when zis book was written, but now ’e is elected or no?”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Erm, I don’t really know... I mean, I think the Wizengamut must vote for him... but now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of political parties in the Wizengamut.” He thought about it some more. Were Ministers for Magic elected in a popular vote?  The Wizengamut certainly wasn’t — they were like the House of Lords, but did they appoint a Minister from their ranks like the muggles did for Prime Ministers?  But the Wizengamut was judicial — they didn’t write laws, only weigh in on the really big and controversial ones. Most of the rules, regulations, codes and registries that wizards had to obey were really procedures written by the workers in various Ministry departments.

“You do not know ’ow your own Minister gets ze job?” she asked, taken aback.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t seem too important,” he muttered sheepishly.

“Maybe you can not ’elp me zhen,” she said.

“You can try asking me other questions,” Harry offered apologetically. Mentally, he made a note to look for a book in the library on British magical government — it was pretty embarrassing that he didn’t even know if the Minister for Magic was elected.

“I do not want to be rude,” she apologized. “I am frustrated and I zhink my Eenglish iz not as good.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said dismissively. “I understand it must be hard. And none of us really get History of Magic either. Binns isn’t a very good teacher and no one tries very hard because he doesn’t even know our names or notice what we do in class.”

“Yes, I have also seen zhis,” she said. “I am sad about zhis. ’istory iz a good class at Beauxbatons. Zhis year, I was going to learn magical cultures, non-human cultures, and ze laws of magical France. Eet seems to me zhat all ze time you all are talking about ze ‘wizarding world’ when really you mean only ze wizarding United Kingdom. I miss learning about ze world.”

“Well, alright, it’s true that we throw around the ‘wizarding world’ thing and don’t really learn much about anywhere else, but that’s normal, right?  I mean, don’t you get taught mostly about French history?  And don’t Beauxbatons students talk about France like it’s all that matters?”

“No,” she replied. “We learn first about modern France and some zhings about Francophone magical countries. Zhen we learn magical geography and magical world ’istory from just before ze Statue of Secrecy to ze Second World War.” She held up the Bagshot text. “Eet iz a little like zis, but only for ze second to ze fourth year. Zhen advanced ’istory of France, zhen advanced world ’istory and zhen I ’ave already told you about ze final year.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “We mostly do goblin wars and giants and stuff... well, maybe there’s more but I don’t pay much attention. It’s hard to listen to Binns drone on and on.”

“But ’istory iz so interesting!” she protested. “Professor Binns iz maybe not ze best professor but zhere iz more to any subject than what iz taught in ze lectures.”

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t really the sort who did extra reading.

“Do you learn nozhing of Scandia, Persia, Mali, China?  Can you not name ze countries on a map?”

“Scandia?” he asked, confused.

“You know eet?  Eet is just to ze North. Ze muggles ’ave Norway and Sweden but wizards ’ave Scandia.”

“Really?  I didn’t know that.”

“You will go to ze library and find some books about zhis. Magical geography and your magical government and world ’istory,” she said, counting the subjects off on her fingers. “And when you have done zhis, you will tell me ’ow you get your Minister for Magic, yes?”

“Alright,” Harry agreed. And Harry did go to the library when he left Delacour. He spent half an hour sifting through the drawers of the card catalogue related to those subjects, copying out titles and shelf numbers for a dozen of the most promising-looking books which he collected from the stacks and sat down to remedy an embarassing situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Harry got the Horntail in canon. But as this was simply based on a random drawing out of a bag, he had equal chance of getting any of the dragons and my random number generator says he gets the Short Snout this time which also means he has to go first.


	24. The Boggart and Snape

“You really think this will help?” Harry asked apprehensively. It was less than a week after the first task and he had turned up for another meeting disguised as an unfair detention and Snape had pointed to a closed trunk and said that he was tired of all the beating around the bush they’d been doing and it was time to get to the root of the problem.

So he’d brought a boggart.

Snape nodded once and thumbed the latch.

“Alright,” Harry sighed, lifting his wand and readying to cast the Patronus Charm.

The chest shook as Snape stepped back hurriedly. Harry took a hesitant step forward and the lid of the chest thumped and jumped twice. Snape flicked his wand and the lid rose. Out sprang... not a dementor, but the ghostly figure of Lily Potter.

“Oh, it’s you again,” she said derisively.

Harry’s wand fell and confusion crossed his face.

“What?  You thought the ring was broken?  How precious,” she said, laughing nastily. “No, it’s fine. There’s just no one on this side that wants to see you anymore. You’ve disappointed us, Harry.”

Harry withered, his nerves deserting him in the face of a great unvoiced fear. “No. No. This isn’t right.”

Snape too seemed paralyzed by shock.

“We were all there for you, but you ran away.” The ghost was advancing on Harry now. “Where was your Gryffindor bravery, Harry?  You had a job to do and you ran.”

“I didn’t run, Mum. I was going,” Harry protested weakly.

“Oh didn’t you?  I was there, you know. I saw it. You could have ended it, saved all those people whose only crime was caring about you — or wasn’t it bad enough that we had to die for you?  You owe us, Harry.”

Harry couldn’t answer. He couldn’t catch his breath, not with the ghostly Lily advancing on him.

“And I’ve been watching you since then too, young man, and let me tell you, I find your behavior towards my dear sister shameful, Harry. You’ve been manipulating her and Vernon!  That’s not the right sort of behavior for the son of two proud Gryffindors!”

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Harry managed to gasp.

“No, I don’t think you are. Well know this, boy, James and I, we want nothing to do with you anymore. You’re—”

Snape seemed to recover at last and stepped forward. Abruptly, the ghost of Lily disappeared, replaced immediately by the familiar form of a dementor. Harry had no hope of defense against the creeping cold and despair and fell to his knees, but Snape merely whispered the Patronus Charm and a silvery doe emerged from his wand and drove the creature back, all the way into the trunk. Snape slammed the lid shut and palmed the latch in a single movement, while dismissing the patronus with a flick of his wand. Then he rounded on Harry.

“What. was. that?” he growled.

Harry sat shaking on the floor, trying in vain to re-capture his breath. Snape dispassionately threw a chocolate bar at him. It bounced off Harry’s chest without him making so much as a move to try to catch it.

“Eat the Goddamn chocolate, Potter!” Snape shouted angrily.

Harry’s hands obeyed the tone automatically, as best they could having gone tingly in his state. He tried to unwrap it, but fumbled.

Snape growled again and snatched the candy from Harry’s hopeless hands, ripped open the packaging and thrust it back.

“You have two minutes to collect your wits, Potter, and then I expect an explanation,” Snape said, then he walked around his desk, took a seat in his chair, and began viciously marking papers.

Harry raised the chocolate to his mouth and forced himself to take a bite even though his breathing was still troubled enough to make swallowing difficult. But the chocolate did make things a bit better the more he ate, so he carried on. He didn’t know how he was going to get out of this one. How could he not have realized his boggart might have changed?  He was so angry with himself. Dementors had already done their worst to him and it turned out that it hadn’t been so bad. Hadn’t he thought it enough times right after he’d been Kissed — that the dementor attack had been overshadowed by the thing with time?  Of course he should have realized this would happen. There were plenty of contenders for a new greatest fear, among them inferi and Dumbledore attacking him, but it seemed his mother had won out. “How pathetic is that?” Harry asked himself disgustedly.

“Are you ready to talk then, Potter?” Snape asked, looking up from his marking and gesturing to the seat opposite him.

“I’d rather not,” Harry muttered.

“Be reasonable, Potter!  That boggart crippled you. That cannot go unremedied and I’m afraid I can’t help you without understanding what I’ve just witnessed.”

Harry sighed and pulled himself up off the floor to take the offered seat. “So... that was my mother, but you knew that already,” he began lamely.

Snape sent him a withering glare across the desk. “Indeed. And I notice it was the ghost of your mother. This is perhaps an important detail. Have you encountered your mother’s ghost before?”

Harry opened his mouth to lie.

“Don’t lie to me!” Snape snapped angrily. “Your face is an open book, Potter. Don’t insult me. Tell the bloody truth.”

But Harry couldn’t. How could he explain this without the background of his time travel?  So he stubbornly held silent.

Snape rolled his eyes and sighed. “Listen, Potter. If you won’t talk, I don’t know how much help I can be, but I knew your mother and she wasn’t like that.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Harry said dismissively, though privately, he was wondering how he himself could understand. She was his mother and Dumbledore had always said she’d loved him so much it had saved him from You Know Who. But he still hadn’t forgiven her and his father and Sirius and Remus for that night in the forest...

“Then help me to understand, Potter,” Snape snapped.

And before he could stop himself, Harry snapped back. “You think she was so wonderful!  Everyone does!  But she wasn’t!  She turned on you over one little argument, wouldn’t even let you apologize, and then married the one person who’d been worst to you!  She—”

Snape went whiter than Lily’s ghost. “How do you know that?”

“What?” Harry faltered mid-rant, taken aback.

“Who told you that?” Snape shouted.

Now it was Harry’s turn to go white as his head caught up with his mouth. “Shite!” He’d blown his most important secret!  He considered running for one fraction of a moment, but the look on Snape’s face and the grip the man had on his wand convinced him that would be deadly foolish. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered. “But you can’t tell anyone what I’m about to say!” Harry ordered, pointing an accusing finger at Snape.

Harry took a deep breath and did the only thing left to do. He jumped right in. “You know about the time turner — how Dumbledore wanted me and Hermione to use it to rescue Sirius?  Well it didn’t happen that way at first. Before, we did use it but we didn’t rescue Sirius’ body, we stopped the dementor attack. I saved myself from being attacked by a dementor. I guess that’s a paradox because there was no one to get help until I chose to send Hermione inside the second time. The dementors would have done to me what they did to Sirius so I wouldn’t have been alive to go back. But it seemed to work for awhile. We saved me and Sirius and Buckbeak, Hagrid’s hippogriff, too. Hermione didn’t get bitten and turned into a werewolf, and Sirius went on the run again. It all seemed to work for years, but then all of a sudden, it all went funny. It was like the world shifted around me and I was back before the attack again and I did things differently and I didn’t go back in time again so I could avoid the paradox and because it didn’t matter anymore and—”

Snape held up a hand to stop him. “Look me in the eyes, Potter, and tell me that again.”

Harry obeyed, knowing Snape wanted to try Legilimency and that it would help Snape to believe him, but he had scarcely opened his mouth to speak when Snape turned away sharply and sicked up on the floor.

“Professor!” Harry gasped.

Snape waved his wand and the sick vanished. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.

“I don’t believe I’ll be trying that again in any hurry,” Snape muttered.

“What happened?” Harry asked concernedly.

“You tell me, Potter. It’s your mind.”

“Oh. The Sorting Hat mentioned something about it being strange.”

Snape scoffed. “Strange, he says. The Sorting Hat may count itself lucky it has no stomach.”

Snape’s wand flicked towards a desk drawer. He opened it and produced a vial from within. Harry recognized it as Veritaserum immediately and held out a hand. This seemed to throw Snape who must have been expecting him to refuse. Snape filled the dropper cap with just a single drop of the truth serum and handed it across the desk. Harry emptied the dropper onto his tongue and swallowed.

“So tell me, Potter, how old are you truly?”

“18,” Harry replied in monotone.

Snape’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s the last thing you remember before finding yourself a third year for the second time?”

“My parents and Sirius and Remus were talking to me about how peaceful death is and how brave I was to be walking to my death at Voldemort’s wand.”

“And that’s the incident your boggart mentioned — when you could have ‘ended it’?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, but the tiny dose of truth serum was already wearing off. “Should I take more?” he asked.

Snape shook his head, reclaimed the dropper and put the bottle away again. He steepled his fingers and gazed thoughtfully into the distance for what seemed to Harry like a long time. Harry let him think. He knew this was a lot to take in.

“Was that Dumbledore’s plan then?  Causing a paradox so you’d get a second chance with your knowledge of the future?”

“No. His plan was for me to destroy all of the horcruxes to make You Know Who mortal again and then go to him and let him kill me and I guess the spell was supposed to bounce off again and finish him off, but I guess it would have killed me too. That’s what it seemed like anyways, from what my parents said. And I don’t remember much. I made myself some notes, but I forgot it all really quickly. I couldn’t help it. I still remember some stuff, like meeting my parents and seeing... some deaths.”

Snape scowled. “We shall return to that eventually, but about the boggart, am I to understand that your mother talked you into walking calmly and willingly towards probable torture and certain death at the hands of a sadistic megalomaniac because it was the brave thing to do?”

Harry winced, hearing it in those words.

“And you listened?” Snape demanded.

“I was when the thing with time happened,” Harry admitted, shrinking in on himself ashamedly.

Snape gave him a look of intense disgust.

“I’m messed up, okay?  I know that,” Harry whispered, his eyes falling to his hands.

Snape sighed. “So this has nothing to do with dementors.”

Harry shook his head.

“Will you tell Poppy?”

“NO!  And you can’t tell anyone either!” Harry pleaded.

“Calm yourself, Potter. I would hardly be believed. Dumbledore has other ideas about the source of your problems and he’d only think I’d been taken in. It would compromise my position with nothing to gain.”

Harry relaxed, placated by Snape’s sound Slytherin logic.

“How are we to proceed then?  Dementors, that I could understand, as I’m sure you noticed.”

“I didn’t know your boggart was a dementor, sir,” Harry said.

“I was in Azkaban for two weeks at the end of the war.”

“Why?  You were on our side.”

“I played both sides, and even so, the Ministry had no way of knowing that. No one did, until Dumbledore was able to speak on my behalf.”

“But two weeks?  It took him two weeks?” Harry couldn’t believe that. He’d been on the Dursleys’ doorstep in just 24 hours. How long could it have taken to get Snape out of the worst place on Earth?

Snape didn’t answer Harry’s question. “A fear of dementors, I could have helped you fight, but this is different. These kinds of scars... I don’t think I’m the best person to help you.”

“I... I thought you’d understand. It seemed, at the World Cup, like you knew what was happening,” Harry said, fear creeping in. He’d believed in Snape. If Snape wasn’t going to help, was he stuck with these nightmares forever?

Snape hesitated to answer. But eventually, he admitted, “That’s just it, Potter. I do know it, all too well, and that’s why I know I don’t have the answers.”

Harry felt like crying. But instead, he said, perhaps a bit too loudly, “Okay.” It felt like a life sentence, getting up out of that chair and walking to the door.

“Potter,” Snape said solemnly, “I’m sorry.”

Harry choked back the lump rising in his throat and fled.

He didn’t run and he kept himself together long enough to get well out of the dungeons, but he couldn’t hold back forever. Tears were rolling silently down his cheeks as he climbed the last stairs to the seventh floor and stumbled down the corridor. He was struggling to breathe as he called up the Room of Requirement. He leapt, panicked, as he heard laughter ring out from around the corner. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. He wrenched open the door the moment it appeared and slipped inside. The door closed, and a gentle sort of darkness surrounded him. He tried to breathe deeply as he slumped against the door and slid to the floor, shaking like a leaf and fighting the tunneling of his vision as blackness swallowed up even the faint light coming from under the crack in the door.

After a few minutes of careful breathing, his vision returned and his eyes adjusted. Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting the room to create for him, but this wasn’t it. Surely the room had to have tried to give him something that would make him feel safe. But it hadn’t given him the Black House, or Gryffindor Tower, or The Burrow. It gave him his cupboard. His damn cupboard.

“I am so fucked up,” Harry told the darkness in a tone of resignation.

*****

Harry struggled to get on with his life in the days after the incident with the boggart and Snape. There were essays to write and chapters in his textbooks to read, classes to go to and meals to eat. It wasn’t easy and Hermione, Neville, and Luna noticed he’d taken a turn for the worse. For once, it was Hermione worrying about Harry over the full moon instead of the other way around. But Harry wasn’t talking, wasn’t burdening them with his personal problems, and he rather resented them for constantly bringing it up. After two days, he snapped. He cut Hermione off in the middle of her haranguing and dragged her down a disused corridor.

“Would you just leave it! ?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

“But something happened, Harry, and I just wish you would tell me what!” she whispered fervently.

“I don’t want to talk about it!  I know you understand that!  The more you and Neville and Luna bring it up, the harder it is for me so please, just stop.” Harry said his piece and then stormed off.

“But Harry, ignoring it isn’t dealing with it!” she called, hurrying after him.

“Ms Granger, quiet in the corridors, please!” McGonagall scolded.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but...” Hermione protested as Harry ducked into the classroom.

All through class, Professor McGonagall cast worried looks in his direction. Harry hated it. He felt ashamed and tired. _Why can’t everyone just leave me alone and let me forget?_  he thought.

“What is wrong with you?” Ron hissed accusingly at him under his breath while McGonagall was bent over Neville’s desk giving him some advice on the day’s practical assignment.

“Do you care?” Harry asked dully.

Ron reeled back like he’d been slapped. His face turned red and he snarled, “Well, fine. Be like that.”

After what seemed like hours, the bell finally rang signaling the end of class.

“Potter, stay after,” Professor McGonagall called over the noise of the students leaving Transfiguration.

Harry winced.

“I’ll meet you in the library, yeah?” Harry muttered to Hermione.

She looked worried, but she’d looked nothing but these last few days. He nodded and she left.

“Madam Pomfrey would like to see you after dinner.” Professor McGonagall said quietly when the last student had left. “We’re very worried. You haven’t been yourself the last few days.”

Harry just nodded and left. It took all his energy to get through the day. He barely ate and, leaving dinner, he abruptly decided he wasn’t going to see Madam Pomfrey. Talking wouldn’t help. Bed was better.

So he trudged up seven flights of stairs, climbed through the portrait hole, shuffled and slumped through the motions of getting ready for bed, not caring that it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet, then fell into bed and welcomed the darkness as the curtains closed around him.

It might have been hours later or mere minutes, he didn’t know, but some time later, he was startled awake suddenly as the curtains were jerked back.

“Mr Potter!”

Harry woke from deep sleep instantly, jumping from flat on his back to upright next to his bed, wand in hand, heart racing and breathing like he’d just run a marathon. He only just managed to stop the curse on the tip of his tongue when he realized it was Professor McGonagall.

“Merlin!  I’m so sorry,” she apologized. Her eyes were like saucers and she’d gone white.

In the next bed, Ron looked much the same. “What the hell, Harry!” he screamed.

Neville and Hermione stood in the doorway looking worried and a bit frightened.

Harry staggered and fell back against his wardrobe. “Sorry,” he gasped between ragged breaths.

“It’s my fault, Potter. I should have known better than to startle you awake,” Professor McGonagall said. She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder and steady him but he ducked it and sat back on his bed.

“Sorry,” he said again.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Hermione asked from the doorway.

“Yeah,” he said in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

“You missed your session with Madam Pomfrey,” the professor scolded.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed dismally.

“Get dressed. You’re going now,” McGonagall ordered.

“What?  No. I’m sleeping,” Harry protested, eyes going wider with just a touch of irrational fear.

“Please, Harry,” Hermione begged.

Harry looked at her worried expression, then at Neville’s and Professor McGonagall’s. Even Ron was looking at him with confusion and concern.

“There’s no use arguing, Mr Potter,” McGonagall said sternly.

“Yeah, alright.” He bent and picked his robes up from where he’d dropped them before bed and put them on over his pajamas.

“Shoes too, Potter,” McGonagall said.

Harry stuffed his feet into his shoes and followed McGonagall down to the common room. She unlocked the door to her and Pomfrey’s quarters and motioned Harry through. With a feeling of dread in pit of his stomach, he walked through the door. McGonagall didn’t follow but shut it behind him. The warm light from the sitting room didn’t reach all the way to the end of the hall and Harry hesitated there in the dark.

“Harry?” Madam Pomfrey appeared at the end of the corridor.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized. “I shouldn’t have skived.”

She nodded, accepting his apology. “Come in and take a seat.”

Harry stepped into the light and was shocked to see Snape sitting there as well.

“I’d like a word with Potter alone before we begin. Can I use your office, Poppy?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“This way, Potter,” he said, gesturing for Harry to follow him. Snape quickly closed both doors and when he turned back to Harry, he said, “You have to talk to Madam Pomfrey about this. You can’t do this alone and you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m doing the best I know how.”

Snape paced. “You’re ignoring everything, Potter. That’s not the same as coping. You need guidance. You need to talk. Madam Pomfrey can do that.”

“I was doing alright for awhile. You were helping,” Harry said. “Now you won’t, so I have to do this myself.”

“Why have you fixated on me, of all people?” Snape asked stopping in his pacing to pin Harry with a stare. “You can’t do this yourself. You can’t. It doesn’t work. And our sessions didn’t do any good, Potter, so you have to let Pomfrey help you.”

“No,” Harry snapped. “If you’re not going to help me, then fine. You think I want to tell Madam Pomfrey?  I don’t!”

“That’s what she’s there for!  You need a support system and she’s trying to provide it!”

“Yes, exactly!  I like her and I want her to like me!” Harry said, his tone pleading for Snape to understand.

That gave Snape pause. “Be that as it may,” he began more thoughtfully.

But Harry interrupted him. “No. She doesn’t need to know. She can’t know the things I’ve done.”

“What have you done that would make Poppy Pomfrey hate you?” Snape asked, scowling at being interrupted.

“You want a fucking example!?  I watched you die and I did nothing!” Harry spun to point angrily at the rapidly paling Snape. “Am I supposed to tell her about that?  I found you in the Shrieking Shack. You were on the floor, bleeding everywhere. Nagini bit your neck. You threw all these memories at me and I sat on the floor with your blood pooling around me. I should have done something. Tried to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood. Everywhere. The smell. The blood, the dust, the mould.”

“Potter,” Snape voice cut through the memories, but then it became part of them.

Harry was shaking so hard his knees buckled under him. Snape caught him by the elbow and helped him into a chair.

“Listen to me, Potter.”

“Can’t you smell it?” Harry sobbed.

“There’s no blood here, Potter. It smells like disinfectant,” Snape said. He tried to get up but Harry latched on to him. Instead, he pulled his wand and summoned something from the shelves. A bottle flew into his hand. He uncorked it and shoved it under Harry’s nose.

Harry reared back. “Eugh!” He slumped back in the chair and put his head in his hands. But he suddenly pulled his hands away from his face and tried frantically to wipe them on his robes. “Off, off, off,” he whispered desperately.

“What is it, Harry?” Snape asked.

“Feels like blood,” Harry muttered.

Snape whispered a spell and suddenly the back of Harry’s neck was icy, hit by a strong Cooling Charm. “There’s no blood. Not anymore. Forget about it. Concentrate on the cold. You can smell the Aubrey’s Elixir again if you need to as well. Are you thinking about the cold?”

Harry nodded and took a deep shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry, Potter. I should have told you about this. If you’d said you were experiencing flashbacks...” Snape said quietly.

“First time,” Harry muttered shakily.

“You’re supposed to be getting better, Potter, not worse,” Snape said, but there was a light lilt to it that Harry’d certainly never heard from Snape before.

“Are you teasing me?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“Just a little,” Snape admitted. “You’ll have to talk about these things though. The standard treatment for flashbacks is narrative retelling in therapy. Pomfrey will listen. You feel comfortable talking to her, don’t you?”

“Poppy’s nice. It’s why I can’t tell her this stuff,” Harry protested.

“I admit this arrangement may have been poorly thought out in that regard,” Snape said. “I suppose I have no choice. We will resume our sessions if it is the only way forward in your treatment.”

“Don’t say that,” Harry said, wincing. “Don’t let me be a burden to you.”

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean,” Snape said dismissively.

Harry shrugged. The movement turned into a shiver from the cold of the spell.

Snape lifted his wand to cancel it.

“No, not yet.” Harry stopped him.

“Madam Pomfrey wants to see you again in two weeks. I’ll make some time for you before Christmas and if you need to see me any other time, get a detention from me. _Don’t blow up any cauldrons_. You can turn up late to my class or give me cheek in the corridors but don’t do anything stupid.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Potter. When you’ve collected yourself, we’re going back to speak with Madam Pomfrey. She and I have discussed your treatment program and agreed that she should focus her sessions with you on your relationship with your family and your pre-Hogwarts years. I expect you to be cooperative in that regard. You and I will work on your traumatic memories, so be prepared.”


	25. Ron's Misadventures

The weather took a turn for the worse as November gave way to December. Wind and sleet battered the castle, the ship, and the carriage. Spending Care of Magical Creatures class outside was awful, even with Warming Charms on their cloaks. They couldn’t even wear mittens because Hagrid had them handling the skwerts again and it wasn’t going well. One particularly bad class ended with the remaining ten skwerts rampaging around the pumpkin patch, Hagrid shouting, and most of the students gone or barricading themselves in Hagrid’s hut. And just as those few remaining students and Hagrid managed to get all but one of the skwerts contained, it had to get worse.

"Well, well, well… this does look like fun."

Rita Skeeter was leaning on Hagrid’s fence, surveying the wreckage of the garden. She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar and her crocodile-skin handbag was on her arm.

"What are these fascinating creatures called?" she asked, beaming widely.

"Blast-Ended Skrewts," grunted Hagrid.

"Really?" said Skeeter, apparently quite interested, though Harry was sure it was feigned and was therefore paying very close attention in case he needed to remind Skeeter where they stood.

Harry and some of the other Gryffindors finished wrestling the last skwert back into its pen while Skeeter questioned Hagrid about the skwerts and his teaching career. It went on until the bell rang up at the school signaling the change of classes. Harry caught Skeeter as she left and the rest of the class hurried back up to the castle.

“Are you trying to get Hagrid in trouble?” Harry demanded.

“For these… creatures? Unfortunately not. The Ministry granted him a permit for the good of the Tournament,” Skeeter said primly.

“Then what are you doing poking around here?” Harry asked.

“Looking for a story, of course. To be honest—”

Harry scoffed at that dubious statement earning him a narrow-eyed glare from Skeeter before she continued.

“—I came because someone tried to sell me a story a few days ago.”

“Hagrid’s a good person,” Harry warned. “I don’t want him to get into trouble.”

“It was a story about you, as a matter of fact. Now, I won’t reveal my sources, but someone quite close to you said you might have had a mental breakdown.”

Harry’s glare in response to that news could have make a skwert think twice about crossing him.

“Tsk, tsk, Potter. You can’t expect me to turn up my nose at such a juicy story as Harry Potter going off his trolley, pulling his wand on a professor, and being sent to the Infirmary for treatment,” Skeeter said with a superior little smirk.

 _Someone close to me … but who? _Harry thought furiously. _Someone who saw me pull a wand… _Harry snarled. It had to be Ron. He’d seen McGonagall startle Harry awake. Hermione and Neville had been there too, but Hermione would never sell him out and he didn’t think Neville was that sort of person. But Ron was angry at him. And he’d been hung up on the prize money for the Tournament, the money he said the twins needed.

“We have a deal, Skeeter, and don’t you forget it!” Harry warned her, and then he marched off towards the castle.

He caught up with Ron in the corridor outside Gryffindor Tower.

“Ron, can I have a word with you?” Harry snapped.

“What do you want?” Ron replied nervously. Behind him, the portrait swung open and several younger girls climbed through.

“I’ve just had a chat with Rita Skeeter,” Harry said, scowling. “Care to guess what it was about?”

“Oh don’t look at me like that!” Ron snapped. “I didn’t tell her anything that wasn’t true.”

Harry’s heart fell. Some small part of him had held out hope that he’d been wrong. But now it was clear that his friend had betrayed him to the worst of reporters. He went red with rage. “You shouldn’t have told her anything!”

The girls stopped to gawk.

“We’re not friends anymore! I can tell reporters whatever I want and you can’t tell me not to!”

“What are you talking about? We’re not friends anymore?” Harry snapped irritably. “I’m still your friend, you just don’t want to believe me about the tournament!”

“Don’t put this on me! You’re the one that doesn’t talk to me anymore. I tried to get you to play gobstones or chess or Quidditch with me, but it was always Arithmancy with Hermione, Potions with Hermione, Defense with Hermione. And when its not Hermione, you have to go see a professor.”

Frantic whispering among the girls followed.

“What are you looking at?” Ron spat.

The girls scurried away.

“Ron, you don’t have to be jealous of Hermione. We —”

“No, we’re done here,” Ron said. He spun and marched through the portrait hole just as another group of Gryffindors, older this time, came out and headed off to lunch.

“You can’t do this!” Harry called, chasing after him. “This isn’t some prank you play on me because you’re angry. This is my life! It’s real, Ron.”

“And my life isn’t?” Ron growled over his shoulder. “Nice, Potter,” he sneered sarcastically.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“You don’t have to lie anymore, Potter. You don’t want me around. I get it. And you can lie all you want about pretending you’re going to see Vector, but we all know you have to see Pomfrey every month to get your head examined.”

“Ron!” Harry called after him but Ron was already storming off towards a corner of the common room where his twin brothers seemed to be practicing what looked like some sort of bird self-transfiguration leaving mounds of fine yellow feathers on the floor.

Harry thought about following but the shouting had drawn the attention of most of the students still lingering in the common room and he didn’t want to be the center of a scene. He decided to let Ron cool off and they’d talk about it again later. He stalked up the steps to his dorm, vibrating with anger and betrayal. He didn’t hear footsteps scurrying behind him until they followed him into his dorm.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Hermione asked, pushing the door mostly closed behind her.

“Ron tried to sell Skeeter a story about me being crazy and dangerous!” Harry growled, pacing the small room.

“He what!?” she gasped. “He can’t do that!”

Harry didn’t respond.

“What are we going to do, Harry? Is there any way we can stop the _Prophet_?” Hermione asked anxiously.

“Done,” Harry said distractedly. “Skeeter’s not doing it.”

“You’re sure?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I just can’t believe Ron would do something like that!”

Hermione nodded. “He definitely shouldn’t have. We have to talk to Professor McGonagall! This is bullying!”

Harry scoffed. “Ron’s just jealous, Hermione. He’ll get over it. And anyway, I have this handled.”

Hermione sighed, but let it drop for the moment. “We should get to lunch.”

But that night after dinner, as they poured over Arithmancy texts in the library, trying to get Harry ready for Professor Vector to test his progress before Christmas holidays, she brought it up again.

“Well, I thought you sounded very responsible, very mature. Obviously, this was just a little disagreement that grew out of hand and Ron should be able to see that and put it behind you, but I guess Ron thought you sounded a bit like Percy. I don’t think Percy was that bad, really. I mean, he was a prefect and he was Ron’s big brother…” Hermione tried to explain.

“And sometimes he was a bit of a prat,” Harry sighed. He’d known Ron thought he’d had decided he was too good to be Ron’s friend anymore and talking to Ron like a reasonable adult when all Ron could see was a kid that was different this year… well, it hadn’t been the best plan. “Yeah, I get it.”

He’d try a different approach, he decided, after Ron had a couple of days to cool off.

 *****

 

Harry had to see Professor Vector several times as Christmas holidays approached. On the last Wednesday before term, she would decide whether he could move up to his own year group. So far, she seemed to think he was doing well, but she wanted he would need to keep up this pace next semester, whether he was moved up to Hermione’s class or not, if he was to truly catch up with his yearmates by the final exam period. Harry was thinking about that as he walked back to the Tower the night after his fight with Ron.

He was worried it was asking too much of Hermione to keep up this schedule with him all year. Vector had let slip once that Hermione wasn’t quite meeting her full potential this year and it made sense. Besides the extra strain of the full moons this year (though Vector was unaware of that complication), so much of the time Hermione had spent reading on her own Arthmancy assignments last year, she was using to go over the same material again with Harry this year. It was helping Harry a lot, of course, but maybe...

Harry stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway of his dorm, all thoughts of Arithmancy derailed abruptly.

His bed was an island in a stinky, slimy swamp. All the other furniture and belongings had been pushed aside to make room for it. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Harry spotted his broom, thrown in and left. He felt a pit of dread open up in his stomach as he struggled against the mud to get close enough to pull it out.

His beloved racing broom, a gift from his godfather, would never be the same. The handle had been soaking up the murky water causing the paint to crack and the surface to warp. And then there was the state of the bristles. Whether they’d been bent maliciously or it was just down to the way the broom landed in the swamp, Harry didn’t know, but by the time he trimmed away the worst of it, there’d be nothing left for the propulsion spells, to say nothing of the effect on steering.

 _Hermione was right. This_ was _ bullying. Ron is _bullying _ me. _Ron _ is bullying me. Ron was bullying _me _. This is crazy._

Logically, he was furious and betrayed. He should be cursing and plotting revenge, right?

But he just felt cold, dazed. He felt numb.

Harry staggered out of the dorm room and down the stairs to knock on the connecting door in the common room.

“Enter,” McGonagall’s voice called from the other side.

Harry pushed the door open and stepped into Professor McGonagall’s office.

She looked up from her marking, took one look at his face and stood. “What’s happened, Potter?”

“I— I’ve been pranked,” Harry said and held up his broom. _When did Ron turn turn into someone who’d do this?_

Her expression turned furious. “Where did it happen?”

“My dorm,” Harry said.

“Follow me, Mr Potter.” She led the way up to his dorm room and scowled when she spotted the swamp. She whipped out her wand and cast several spells. The first didn’t have any noticeable effect but a second revealed some of the matrices of the magic. She scrutinized it carefully, then cast three more spells in quick succession.

The swamp water roiled and bubbled, the reeds shrank, then a whirlpool appeared at the center and the swamp drained away like bathwater down the drain, disappearing in a few seconds with a sound like a burp. With another wave of her wand, she tidied the carpet up and then she levitated all the furniture back into its places.

“Check the rest of your things,” she told Harry. “Give me the broom.”

Harry handed her his abused broom and shuffled over to his bed. His trunk was still locked and opening it up, there wasn’t anything amiss there. He pulled the covers back on his bed and that too seemed fine. His wardrobe was clean too.

“S’all fine,” he muttered.

“Come along then, Potter. You should be present for this, I think,” she said, and swept out of the room without waiting for a response. In the common room, she quickly spotted Ron and his twin brothers with their heads together, lingering close by, casting frequent, suspicious glances towards the dormitories. “Weasleys, my office, now,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at them and then swept into her office, Harry following.

All three of them obeyed, Ron rather more reluctantly than his brothers.

“Close the door,” McGonagall told Ron, taking her seat at her desk. She allowed a moment of silence for her thundery expression to register with each of them.

Ron shifted uneasily under her gaze.

“Come on, Professor. It was just a prank,” Fred protested as he slumped lazily into one of the student chairs at her desk.

“Yeah. All in good fun,” George agreed with a cheeky grin.

“Destroying a student’s property is not all in good fun,” McGonagall snapped.

“D’you mean you couldn’t just banish it?” Fred asked excitedly.

“The swamp was gone in a wave of the wand,” she said sternly.

The twins deflated.

“It is Mr Potter’s Firebolt racing broom to which I refer.” She held the broom up, careful not to let it drip on the drifts of parchment on her desk.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Fred said, turning suspiciously to Ron.

“The broom did not get there by itself,” McGonagall said sternly.

“Fred and I made the swamp and we gave it to Ron because Harry’s been such a stick in the mud lately, we just thought he could use a little lightening up,” George said.

“It was just supposed to be a prank,” Fred said. “We didn’t know Ron was going to be nasty about it.”

“We’re really sorry, Harry,” George said and he seemed to genuinely mean it. Fred nodded his agreement, but Ron scowled as if this were all Harry’s fault.

Harry just stood there feeling numb.

McGonagall’s lips were a thin line of displeasure. “A prank, boys, is something harmless that everyone can find funny, not dangerous, not malicious, not anything that causes lasting harm. There will be consequences which I hope will help you to learn the difference.”

“Aw, Professor,” Fred pleaded.

“As punishment, Fred and George, you will have two detentions each and Ronald, you will have four. A letter will be sent home to your parents and you will have to replace Mr Potter’s broom.”

The twins went very pale at that and Ron started to work himself up towards indignant bluster.

“You don’t know I did that! He could have done it when he saw our prank! To get us in trouble!”

Fred rolled his eyes at his younger brother.

“Shut up, Ron!” George hissed.

“I may yet add more,” McGonagall warned sternly, “when I’ve heard back from your mother. Now go. Get some schoolwork done, for a change. Potter, stay.”

Harry waited for the Weasleys to file out and close the office door again before he said, “They can’t afford that, Professor.” It was quiet, barely over a whisper.

“I know, but they must learn that there are consequences to their actions. Their parents will have to be informed and I’m sure Mrs Weasley will be in touch with me.”

“But—”

“I have no doubt that Mr and Mrs Weasley and I will work something out, Potter. Your broom will be replaced, one way or another.”

“Alright. Thanks, Professor.”

“Patch up your friendship with the Weasleys,” Professor McGonagall told him, “and go talk to Poppy.”

But Harry didn’t feel like talking to Poppy. She was always so… helpful. He’d tell her what was going on she’d immediately try to fix it. He just wanted it all to stop — not forever, just for a little while. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it? He trotted down a flight of stairs, heading for the kitchens. The elves liked him; he could probably get a Butterbeer or two out of them and maybe Dobby’s generalized good mood could cheer him up, make him forget his problems for a bit.

Unfortunately, Harry soon learned it was Dobby’s day off and he was away. Another elf was all too happy to give him several Butterbeers and a selection of tarts but seemed uncomfortable talking to him so Harry fled the awkwardness, treats in hand and tried to come up with somewhere he could go. His thoughts were circling and he hated that. If he went to the Room of Requirement now, it would probably give him the bloody cupboard again. He couldn’t eat in the library and he’d never get away without telling the story of this whole nasty evening if he went Gryffindor. He still didn’t want to talk to Poppy. Wasn’t there anywhere he could go where he didn’t have to be alone but wouldn’t have to talk about things he didn’t want to talk about either?

Snape. Harry couldn’t believe he was thinking it, but it felt like the best idea he’d had all night. At least, he hoped it was. They hadn’t had a lot of contact since Snape had asked him not to come back and while he had said it was okay again if Harry did, well, Harry never could be sure when he was overreaching his welcome.

He knocked at Snape’s office door before realizing how ridiculous that was. Snape probably wouldn’t even be in his office now. He —

“Potter,” Snape said, opening the door before Harry could finish his thought. “Get in here.”

Harry stepped just inside, far enough for Snape to close the door but not so far it looked like he’d assumed he was welcome. “I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to get detention or something but I’m having a horrible day and I thought about sitting in a corner somewhere and drowning my sorrows in butterbeer but that sounded pathetic even to me… so… here I am.”

“What do you want, Potter?” Snape asked, trite but lacking the venom Harry would have associated with real annoyance.

Harry thought about it for a moment. It was silly, really, that he had to think about that. But he did and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the answer he came up with. “To be ignored.”

Snape hesitated just long enough that Harry nearly apologized again, but then he turned and gestured for Harry to follow him through another door and into a comfortable apartment, smaller but not dissimilar to the one Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey shared. Snape showed him into a sitting room where two armchairs and a low table stood in front of a fire. Snape lowered himself into one of the chairs and picked a stack of parchments up off the table before gesturing Harry towards the other armchair.

Harry set his napkin-wrapped parcel of tarts and the bottles of butterbeer on a clear spot on the table and sank deep into the offered chair. He closed his eyes and made himself think of nothing but the warmth from the fire on his skin and its orange dance on his eyelids. He stayed that way for some time and he could just hear the faint scratching of Snape’s quill over parchment as he marked essays in vicious red ink. Eventually, Harry remembered the treats, opened his eyes. He chose a tart and popped open a butterbeer, then prodded the rest just a bit in Snape’s direction.

Snape didn’t take him up on the offer right away, but a few essays later, he took one bottle of butterbeer and still they sat in silence, Snape marking and Harry staring at the dancing flames in Snape’s fireplace. He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that — hours, probably, but as the tension slowly bled from his shoulders, making Harry realize only in its absence the pain he’d been ignoring in his neck for weeks, he though that it was quite possibly the best night he’d had in a very, very long time.

Snape had to send him back to his dorm just before curfew but before he did, he called a house elf so Harry could have it bring Harry his Invisibility Cloak and Harry was able to sneak back into his dorm and and get to bed before his dormmates filtered up from the Common Room for the night.

The next day, the announcement of the Yule Ball moved rumor along – everyone was too busy discussing who would be asking whom. Harry had no interest in that and no time to think of it anyways. Harry had his Arithmancy test to revise for and Hermione was so busy on her own Arithmancy project that she insisted she was behind on, though with Hermione, that was probably an exaggeration. To make matters worse, Hermione was doing a lot of grumbling instead of working beside him. Lately, Krum had been haunting the library and the number of giggling girls that trailed him wherever he went had multiplied since the announcement.

“Come on. I can’t take this anymore and we have to get to class anyways,” Harry said.

 *****

“Excuse me, Professor Snape. Might I have a word with Mssrs Potter and Weasley?” the headmaster said, interrupting the fourth-year Gryffindors’ and Slytherins’ work brewing the antidote for Doxy venom.

Professor Snape looked unhappy about the interruption but allowed the Headmaster to beckon both Gryffindors from their workspaces. Harry didn’t think to collect his belongings — they were only halfway through their potions practical — until he followed Headmaster Dumbledore from the classroom and realized Ron was hastily stuffing things into his schoolbag as they walked.

Dumbledore took them back to his office, sat them down beside each other and took a seat at his desk. “I hear some high spirits may have got a little out of hand in your dormitory this week, am I right, boys?”

Ron put his stubborn face on in lieu of responding and Harry didn’t really know what to say to that, it was such a poor characterization of what had happened.

“Professor McGonagall has reported to me that while the incident was quickly cleaned up, there was regrettably some damage to Harry’s possessions. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

“Tell me, boys, was this a little something you were cooking up for the Slytherins? Just an unfortunate accident?”

“No, sir,” Harry said. “I was the target. Ron’s been—”

“Oh, don’t lay this on me,” Ron snapped. “It’s not me who doesn’t have time for my friends anymore.”

“Is this true, Harry?” Dumbledore asked earnestly.

“What? No!” Harry snapped. “Ron’s been cross with me since Halloween because he doesn’t believe I didn’t enter myself in the tournament.”

“The tournament matter aside,” Dumbledore interrupted dismissively, “I am concerned that you boys have had such a falling out. You were the best of friends from your very first day at Hogwarts. Something has clearly come between you and I do not want you boys to lose such a valuable relationship so I have called you here to discuss what is to be done about this incident.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a prank. I’m sorry it got out of hand, Headmaster,” Ron quickly interjected.

“I understand that, Ronald,” Dumbledore assured him. “Harry, is there something you’d like to say as well?”

Harry’s brows came together in confusion. “What?”

“In the interest of reconciliation, do you not have something you wish to say to your friend Ronald?”

Harry stared, bewildered, for a long moment as the silence stretched uncomfortably. Forced to say something to fill it, he settled for, “Uh, I guess I’m sorry you’ve felt left out, Ron.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I think that’s a good first step, apologies all around.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice that Ron hadn’t in fact apologized to him and didn’t actually seem all that sorry for doing it, just sorry for getting caught.

“And as a second step, of course you will not have to replace Harry’s broom, Ronald.”

“What!?” Harry gasped angrily.

Ron looked surprised and relieved.

“It is simply that the school cannot require this of the Weasleys. We do not have the power to do so,” Dumbledore told Harry.

“But he destroyed mine! How am I supposed to play Quidditch without a broom?” Harry demanded.

“There is no proof, Mr Potter. We cannot demonstrate that Ronald or any of the Weasleys placed your broom in that swamp or that whoever did intended for it to be destroyed by doing so.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Harry couldn’t believe it.

“I am not,” Dumbledore said seriously. “Now, if there was proof, you would be within your rights to take this to the Ministry as a criminal matter but even then, there is no way the Weasleys could afford such a racing broom for their own children, much less for someone else’s.”

“Everyone knows he did it!” Harry argued.

“You of all people should understand the difference between mere rumor or supposition and solid fact,” Dumbledore countered dispassionately.

“His brothers admitted it! I can’t believe you’re doing this!” Harry snapped, livid.

“Would you really beggar a family — one that has been nothing if not kind to you, I might add — over a petty prank between children which may or may not have been their doing?” Dumbledore asked with an air of deep disappointment.

Harry scowled deeply. “Of course I don’t want to hurt the Weasleys,” he said. “But you can’t just let him get away with this.”

“He is not getting away with anything, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore said. “The detentions Professor McGonagall assigned him will stand.”

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Ron said, sounding relieved and a little bit cheerful.

It just served to further enrage Harry.

“Why don’t you head back to class, Ronald. I’d like a few words with Harry alone,” Dumbledore said.

Ron thanked the Headmaster several more times as he left and closed the office door behind himself.

“That is so unfair!” Harry protested.

“Harry, I’m disappointed in you. The Weasley family has been nothing but kind to you. This was just a prank that got out of hand.”

“You as good as told Ron he doesn’t even have to feel sorry!” Harry snapped.

“Should he?” Dumbledore asked. “I have noticed you distancing yourself from him this year and he is understandably hurt by this. Is it really he who should be apologizing when you are clearly the one who should be mending fences?”

“He destroyed my broom!” Harry snapped. “Hermione says this is bullying or something. You’re a teacher; you’re not supposed to take his side!”

“This isn’t about a broom, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore said in his most commanding voice.

“No, it’s about actions having consequences and having to take responsibility,” Harry countered, leaping to his feet, sure that his anger this time was righteous. “I knew the Weasleys wouldn’t be able to replace my broom but Professor McGonagall said she’d work that out with Mrs Weasley. You didn’t have to come in and tell Ron he could deny it was him, and pretend its all my fault what he did, and make me apologize to him while he weasels his way out of even feeling the least bit guilty about it.”

Dumbledore’s expression turned stormy the moment Harry said ‘weasel’ and some condemnation about the proper way for a student to behavre towards a headmaster seemed sure to follow but Harry didn’t wait around to hear it. He stormed out of Dumbledore’s office, not caring how many detentions Dumbledore assigned him for it as long as he could get away now.

“You certainly could have handled that better, Headmaster.”

The Sorting Hat’s castigation was the last thing Harry heard before the gargoyle grated shut behind him. Harry’s emotions were still at a rolling boil when he returned to Potions. Snape hovered as he resumed work on his antidote.

 _Probably worried my distraction will cause a mistake that could blow up the whole lab,_ Harry thought, but he was concentrating too hard for that. He had to because his hands were shaking and if he didn’t concentrate while chopping, his own blood was going to end up a potions ingredient and it would do nothing to improve his work.

Harry kept his head down and got his antidote finished — no small feat considering the amount of lab time Dumbledore had wasted and the interruption caused when Ron came strolling in several minutes behind Harry. That was when Snape finally left Harry to his work, choosing to berate Ron for tardiness and intimidate him into resuming his lab work which Ron clearly hadn’t planned on doing. Harry found himself unexpectedly disappointed.


	26. Loyalties

"When you persist in blaming the victim, things get worse, not better,” Snape said, his voice taking that dark and low tone that his students knew better than to ignore.  
  
“You ought to have learned that lesson, Albus,” Madam Pomfrey agreed. “I'm sure any one of us could name a dozen former students.”  
  
Harry stopped and listened to the raised voices that were filtering out from the staff room. He'd only been looking for Professor Vector, but he wasn't about to interrupt what sounded like a heated argument.  
  
“Indeed. I will be submitting a formal complaint, Albus. I hope you understand why I must,” Snape said.  
  
“If you feel you must,” Dumbledore said, “but you understand nothing will come of it.”  
  
“Even so,” Snape growled, voice tight.  
  
“I am confident that Harry can mend his friendship with the Weasleys if he acts now. How can you blame me for not wanting to jeopardize their reconciliation?”  
  
“Allowing Ron Weasley to get away with what he did is not a step towards improved relations. It is validating the abusive behavior of a spoiled child who, through his very actions, is asking for reasonable guidance.”  
  
“My, my, Severus - isn't this a turn up for the books. Why just last year you'd have been agreeing with me and calling Harry the spoiled child, I do recall,” Dumbledore said cheerfully.  
  
“That's not the point, Albus. Harry has enough troubles without you adding to them,” Poppy said.  
  
“You have made your case and I admitted I was wrong not to take into account what Harry's been through of late. But that has nothing to do with appropriate treatment of the Weasley issue.”  
  
“Look, Albus, 'the Weasley issue' has affected Harry deeply. He feels betrayed and I have to agree,” Madam Pomfrey argued.  
  
“The injustice of this situation has nothing to do with who Harry is or who Weasley is, Albus. It's a matter of principal and of policy.”  
  
“Harry concerns me. His behavior has changed dramatically in a very short time and I am worried about what that may mean,” Dumbledore said.  
  
“Of course he's changed! Harry has been through things no one should have to, let alone a child. Albus, your suspicion is the last thing he needs right now,” Madam Pomfrey argued.  
  
“Severus, I know you understand that there are dangers here that I cannot hope away. I have a greater responsibility and it requires vigilance.”  
  
“Harry is not dangerous,” Snape growled. “He has Spell Shock.”   
  
“He's still the same child you know and the way you are treating him is damaging. He's still a good kid and he doesn't deserve this,” Madam Pomfrey said with the finality of a parting shot.  
  
The door to the Staff Room snapped open sharply and Madam Pomfrey stormed out, Professor Snape not far behind her. Almost immediately, Madam Pomfrey spotted Harry.  
  
“Harry? Harry, what's the matter?” Madam Pomfrey gasped, hurrying to his side.  
  
Harry couldn't speak, couldn't find the words to tell her it was okay, he wasn't hurt and maybe, maybe he was crying because he was happy. He felt happy, sort of. Inside, he was a stormy sea of roiling emotions, but happy was definitely one of them because they had done that - taken the Headmaster to task - for him.   
  
“Severus, help me get him up,” Pomfrey said.  
  
Harry looked her way, confused. _Up?_ He looked down and realized with some shock that he was kneeling on the floor, slumped against the cold stone wall. He hadn't even noticed himself fall. He struggled to his feet with their help. Harry opened his mouth to try to speak, but no words found his tongue.   
  
“You're coming back to my office,” Pomfrey decided. “Severus can give you a calming draught.”  
  
Harry looked hopefully at Snape who failed to scowl disapprovingly. Harry took that as a sign of assent. He allowed Madam Pomfrey to steer him gently along the corridor and around the corner towards the Hospital Wing. He was overwhelmed with feelings he couldn't even begin to describe. And he had this overwhelming urge to grab hold of either or both of them and never let go. But he didn't, no matter how much he wanted to hug Madam Pomfrey and say “Thank you,” no matter how much he wanted - insanely, probably - to tangle his fist in Snape's robe and say “I trust you,” (and wasn't that an utter miracle in and of itself). He wouldn't. He couldn't. It wasn't okay to do those things, or to want to do those things. They were his teachers and students weren't supposed to get attached to them.   
  
And he was himself - _oh yes, there was that._ It wasn't that he believed the things the Dursleys had always said about him, not really. He knew better, logically. But somewhere deep inside him, in the place that the Room of Requirement found, the pit where his cupboard represented comfort and safety, deep down there lurked a quiet, shameful, lingering fear that just maybe...  
  
Madam Pomfrey didn't stop, and hardly slowed long enough for Snape to grab a bottle of Calming Draught from a locked cupboard in her office, until the three of them were safely ensconced in her sitting room. Harry curled up at one end of the sofa. He made sure to wipe his face of tears with the inside of his robe collar before resting his face on the armrest.  
  
“I don't know how much you heard, Harry, but you have to know that Professor Snape and I had to protest Dumbledore's decision to reverse Mr Weasley's punishment. It's okay to be angry - you should be angry. I'm angry! The injustice of it!” Madam Pomfrey said.  
  
Harry settled himself deeper into the sofa and tried to piece together the words to explain, because it wasn't just the injustice that bothered him: it was the way Dumbledore had so casually devalued the things, the feelings, that Harry held dear. “It's just, that broom was a gift from Sirius - the only one I had left. It was... It was something to remember him by.”  
  
“Did you know your godfather well, before?” Madam Pomfrey asked. “I was under the impression you only met once, on the night he... died.”  
  
Harry nodded, though the question confused him for a moment - sometimes he forgot what his life must look like from the outside - that no one really knew what his godfather had really meant to him.  
  
“He wanted me to live with him, but we couldn't with him on the run from the Ministry and me, The Boy Who Lived. It wouldn't have worked anyway. He wasn't all there, I think, after Azkaban, I mean. He was nice and he cared, though. It's just, I can hardly remember him sometimes. I don't want the only memory I have of him to be walking to my death and him telling me it was okay and it would be easy, just like falling asleep.”  
  
There was a great smash of shattering glass and the smell of lamp oil and Harry looked up to see the lamp on the table beside them had broken.  
  
“I'm sorry,” Snape said gruffly, his normally sallow face was looking flushed but his expression was still carefully blank.  
  
Madam Pomfrey looked upset too as she waved her wand and banished the broken glass and spilled oil.  
  
“I need a moment,” Snape said, standing up and immediately turning his back on them. He was out the door before either of the other could reply.  
  
“Harry, what did you mean about remembering your godfather talking to you about death?”  
  
Harry paled. He hadn't meant to give that much away. He still didn't want Madam Pomfrey to know. “It's one of the themes of my nightmares,” he explained, opting for incomplete truth. “Not just him - my parents too - they try to convince me that I owe it to them to win the war or that they're ashamed of the way I've been acting and want nothing to do with me, or... there's this one that happens a lot where I'm walking in the forest, going somewhere that I never actually get to and they're talking to me like 'there' is where I'd die but they're telling me its okay and that I'm brave to be going and stuff like that.”  
  
“They're trying to talk you into killing yourself?” Poppy asked warily. “Harry, have you ever wanted to-”  
  
“I'm not suicidal. It's one of the things we... fight about, talk about, whatever. My mother especially.”  
  
“I'm really worried about this. It's only when you're asleep, right? You never hear or see any of this while you're awake?”  
  
“No. Well, my boggart changed - it's my mother now, or her ghost.”  
  
She relaxed a little, content that those didn't sounds like delusions. “You never believe them, do you? Consider taking their advice?”  
  
“Not seriously, no. Is Snape... is he okay?” Harry asked, casting a worried look over his shoulder at the door Snape had shut behind him. He was almost certain the lamp smashing had been accidental magic - Snape's judging by his reaction - and it took a lot to make an adult wizard lose control of their magic, even for a moment. And Snape always seemed so in control.  
  
Madam Pomfrey looked uncertainly at the now-closed door to her office. “I could go check on him, if you like?”  
  
“Can I?” Harry asked.  
  
Madam Pomfrey hesitated.  
  
Harry stood. “I want to. If he doesn't want me to then, well, I guess I'll be right back.”  
  
“Okay,” Madam Pomfrey said, though she seemed ambivalent.  
  
Harry knocked quietly on the door but didn't wait for an answer before opening it, stepping through, and closing it again behind him. By the time he turned around, he expected Snape to be snarling at him, but he wasn't.  
  
Snape was sitting in Madam Pomfrey's desk chair, face in hands, shoulders shaking.  
  
“Snape,” Harry made sure to speak before getting any closer, both so he wouldn't startle Snape and to give the professor a chance to send him away immediately. He decidedly did not ask the useless _Are you okay?_ question - that answer was obvious.  
  
Snape didn't shout at him. He looked up at Harry with haunted eyes. “Don't let anyone tell you this world would be better off without you in it,” Snape said, his voice gravely and intense. “It's not true.”  
  
“Okay,” Harry whispered.  
  
“There are days when the future looks bleak and just getting through one more day seems like an impossible struggle, Harry - believe me, I know - but it is worth it. I promise.”  
  
That's when Harry realized that this - right now - wasn't about him. He knew Snape had his own issues, some a lot like Harry's own - it was why he trusted that Snape could really help him, listened to his advice and was willing to tell him things he would rather other people didn't know about him - but he hadn't actually seen them before, not really.  
  
“You have people who care about you and would miss you,” Snape continued.  
  
“I know,” Harry replied. Hermione needed him, he knew that. And Poppy cared. Snape too, probably, or they wouldn't be having this conversation. Not like this, at least. “Snape, I trust you,” he said, and maybe he wasn't supposed to, maybe it was crossing that line that Professor McGonagall was so strict about. It wouldn't be appropriate to start thinking that he could do for Snape what Snape was doing for him - he couldn't.  
  
Snape was looking at him like he'd spoken in Japanese.  
  
“I trust you,” Harry said, though more quietly, maybe a little embarrassed.  
  
“You shouldn't,” Snape whispered and refused to meet Harry's eye.  
  
Harry nodded. “Yeah, I should. I've seen things. The details aren't important because it's not going to happen again, but I saw you do something awful and I called you a coward. Later, I learned that I hadn't understood anything I saw and really, you're the bravest man I know and I trust you.”  
  
Snape turned his back to Harry. “Why don't you head back to your dorm,” he said, voice tight.  
  
Harry shifted awkwardly, wondering if he should say something else, but he didn't know what and he didn't want to overstay his welcome, so he ducked out.  
  
After a few minutes, Snape managed to collect himself, dry his eyes, and think of other things. He went to duck his head in to Poppy's sitting room. “I should get back to-”  
  
“Where's Harry? Are you alright, both of you?” she interrupted.  
  
Severus nodded. “Fine. I sent him back to his common room.”  
  
“Severus, has he talked to you about these dreams of his? Where his family tells him to kill himself?” Poppy asked worriedly.  
  
Snape hesitated long enough to step through and close the door behind himself. “It's come up. I'm not sure I'd characterize it quite like that though, at least from what he's shared with me.”  
  
“Can you explain without betraying his confidence?” Poppy asked.  
  
“What has he told you?”  
  
“Just now, you heard some of it, but while you stepped out, I asked him and he told me he dreams of his godfather and his parents telling him that they're ashamed of him, that they expect him to pay for their 'sacrifices' with his life.”  
  
Snape considered carefully before speaking. “I was under the impression that these... dreams were... in some way related to the burden he feels may be placed on him regarding the war. I can't explain why he would expect to be involved but I can say he's probably correct on that point and he knows it so please don't think to dissuade him of that notion - you'd only lose his trust in the process. I believe the earliest of these... dreams was... comforting in nature. That his parents and godfather and possibly other adults in his life as well were comforting him as he walked towards a battle which he was not expecting to survive. Since then, they have taken a rather darker turn and often the ghosts of his loved ones berate him for his perceived shortcomings and for surviving when they did not.”  
  
“He claims he doesn't believe them and sometimes argues with them,” Poppy said.  
  
“Yes, I believe that's accurate, but it still hurts him a great deal,” Severus explained.  
  
“Severus, I don't think I've ever been so worried for a student's mental and emotional well-being.”  
  
“There is more going on here than the dementor attack, but I think this is actually a positive development,” Snape said. “We will have to address his apparent survivor's guilt stemming from his infancy and work on his sense of self-worth. There's also clearly a problem with forming healthy relationships with others that I, to be perfectly honest, am hardly in a position to redress.”  
  
“But he's doing better with the relationships,” Poppy acknowledged. “He knows he has us and he's very close with Ms Granger. He seems to count Longbottom and Lovegood among his friends too, and I think he still considers the Weasleys friends, despite Ronald's behavior of late.”  
  
“You may be correct. I... frequently find myself taken aback at the level of trust he places in me. I am afraid my initial intention to maintain a professional distance has, by necessity, fallen by the wayside.”  
  
“Normally, I would encourage professional distance, but I don't think it would be possible to help Harry address his issues, particularly given his uncaring upbringing, with therapy alone. He needs family he can rely on, but we'll have to do.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Severus said.  
  
“Have you spoken to him about what his mother was really like? That she truly loved him?” Poppy asked.  
  
“Briefly but he was not open to that perspective and... he quite effectively side-tracked the conversation to avoid further discussion in that vein.”  
  
“We must try again. These dreams have to stop, Severus. I can't bear to think how painful they must be for Harry. If they're a manifestation of his guilt at surviving the attack when he was a baby, and I can certainly see how surviving the attack last year would bring that to the fore, then perhaps we need to convince him that his parents were good people.”  
  
“Honestly, I think that's the wrong approach. Telling him how wonderful his mother was triggered what I can only describe as the Fight or Flight response, like it was an attack. I fear it would only feed into his guilt, the idea that world lost such a wonderful person and all to save him.”  
  
“Then what can we do, Severus?”  
  
“We mustn't approach this as proving these ideas wrong. It's not a matter of convincing him he's wrong because it's not a question of right or wrong. This is grief, plain and simple. We need to give him time and support to mourn.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Poppy asked. “I'm so worried of what could happen to him if we make a bad choice.”  
  
“No. I'm not sure,” Severus admitted, “and that concerns me deeply. You've had more training than I.”  
  
“Yes, but you know what he's going through,” Poppy said kindly.  
  
“Our situations are not identical,” Severus protested.  
  
“I know, but it's more understanding than I can give him. If you think he needs to mourn, I can understand that. Perhaps we could arrange for him to visit his parents' graves? I don't know when he would last have had the chance to visit, but... You go around this time of year, don't you? Could he go with you, or would that be infringing on your own grief.”  
  
Severus tensed and would not meet Poppy's eyes. “I can take him, if he wants to come along. Assuming Albus allows it and can be persuaded out of sending a small army for security.”  
  
“I expect he'll be in a conciliatory mood soon enough. Minnie's on the floo to Molly Weasley this evening. I have little doubt that Albus will get a call shortly thereafter and that it will not be as pleasant as he seems to want to believe.”  
  
*****  
  
Several days later, after the Antidotes test in Potions and his Arithmancy exam, Harry sat down to breakfast with the other Champions and Hermione and some of Cedric's friends from Hufflepuff at the time.  
  
“Will you be going to Professor McGonagall's dancing lessons, Harry?” Hermione asked him.  
  
Harry was momentarily confused, and then horror dawned. He groaned. “Oh my god! I completely forgot about the ball.”  
  
You mean you haven't asked anyone?” Hermione gasped. “Harry, how could you be so careless? McGonagall told you all the champions have to dance to open the ball. You can't do it without a date.”  
  
“I'm sorry. I've been so focused on the Arithmancy test and there was the thing with Ron. It just slipped my mind!”  
  
“What are you going to do, Harry?” Cedric asked.  
  
“Hermione, would you go to the ball with me?” Harry asked quickly.  
  
Hermione shot him a look usually reserved for Ron's most foolish stunts. “I have a date. I'm sure I've mentioned it.”   
  
The looks Krum and Cedric were giving him suggested even they knew this already despite rarely speaking with Hermione outside one or two breakfasts a week.  
  
“Sorry. Must have slipped my mind too,” Harry said and he was willing to believe she probably had mentioned it and accept that it said unflattering things about him that he didn't know that.  
  
Krum grunted beside him and went back to his toast.  
  
“Maybe you could ask Luna,” Hermione suggested. “You're friends, right?”  
  
“She's going home. Something about hunting... something with her father,” Harry said.  
  
“You remember that about her, but you forget I have a date to the ball,” Hermione muttered bitterly.  
  
Harry wondered sheepishly how many times she'd brought it up and he'd just tuned her out.  
  
“I think at this point, most everyone who wants to go will have a date, Harry. You really should have thought about this weeks ago. Girls don't like to seem like your last ditch choice,” Cedric advised.  
  
“It is not too late. I 'ave been waiting to say. Three boys have been asking me since the announcement and they hope I might choose them,” Fleur opined.  
  
“Is that fair to them?” Hermione asked, taken aback.  
  
“I do not see why not,” Fleur said. “It is their choice. I stopped encouraging them last week. It was sweet at first, the little gifts, but they are all so ennuyeux.”  
  
“Wouldn't they stop if you just picked someone?” Hermione suggested impatiently.  
  
“Yes. I think so. This is why I will go with Harry,” Fleur said unequivocally.  
  
“Really? Why me?” Harry asked, surprised at Fleur and a wee bit suspicious that he was a cog in some machination of hers - he couldn't think of any other reason she would do this.   
  
“It will be good to have someone I can talk to. They are all so taken with my beauty they speak too little to me. I do not like this.”  
  
“Wow. Thanks, Fleur. You're really a life-saver,” Harry said. He didn't even mind that she probably had other reasons for doing this. He smiled gratefully at her and resolved to owl order her some very nice flowers for this.  
  
The arrival of the post owls just then distracted them all. Cedric received a _Daily Prophet_ delivery and Fleur and Krum both had overseas post. But what really surprised Harry was when a small Tawny Owl dropped a letter on his plate and flew off with his last slice of bacon.  
  
Harry's eyebrows furrowed as he brushed the remnants of his breakfast egg off it and examined the seal. He didn't recognize it so he flipped the letter over and looked at the address. That harsh hand at least he recognized. He saw it all over his marked Potions essays. He slit the wax and read.  
  
“Harry?” Hermione asked quietly as they stood. She smiled and said goodbye to Krum as he excused himself from the table.  
  
Harry passed the note as they collected their books and left for their first class of the day.  
  
“That's nice of him,” Hermione said after she'd read it and passed it back. “Have you been to your parents' graves before?”  
  
Harry shook his head. It was possible that he had, but he couldn't remember it. “Is it? Nice of Snape, I mean.” He was feeling, well, strange about the idea. It wasn't exactly dread, but it wasn't pleasant either. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but if he had to guess, he'd probably have to say it was obligation he was feeling.  
  
Hermione looked at him strangely. “What do you mean? Do you not want to to go? You could tell him - say thanks but no thanks - you know?”  
  
Harry thought about it, then shook his head. “No. I should go. It's not good that I've never been.”  
  
Hermione looked ambivalent. “Well, I guess it's strange, but if you really don't want to, you don't have to.”  
  
“But I should. It's weird otherwise,” Harry said.  
  
“Talk to Madam Pomfrey about it?” Hermione suggested tentatively. Harry had only recently opened up to her about the fact that he was seeing Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape regularly to talk through some things - what things exactly he hadn't shared.  
  
Harry shrugged and changed the subject then, but that evening, when he was scheduled to meet with Madam Pomfrey, he thought about it again.  
  
“Did you know Snape offered to take me to visit my parents' graves?” he asked her, trying to sound nonchalant as he helped himself to the tea and biscuits she'd set out for them.  
  
“We discussed it,” she said. “We think it might help you with the grieving process which, I think, you never really got to do for you parents.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “I don't know. I guess we'll see.” He was still apprehensive about the trip though. “I... understand that it's expected of me.”  
  
She floundered for a response to that and eventually settled for, “We think it will be good for you. It's just the once - If you don't like it, you don't have to go again.”  
  
Harry nodded. _I can do once,_ he thought. Out loud, he abruptly changed the subject. “I just had my Arithmancy test so that's over finally.”  
  
“How do you think you did?” Poppy asked, seemingly relieved.  
  
Harry shrugged. “Alright, I guess. I hope I passed though. It would be really frustrating to have worked so hard all term and then find out I don't get to move up to my own year after all.”  
  
“But you have friends in your class now, don't you?” Poppy asked.  
  
“Yeah. Luna,” Harry said, brow furrowed because he didn't follow her train of thought.  
  
“So if you don't pass, it won't be too bad, right?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “I guess. I'd probably have to give up on pursuing the NEWT though. I could take the OWL as a sixth year but if I don't catch up now, I'll never be able to catch up. It's taken a lot of time already and the longer it takes, the more behind I get.”  
  
“Has your Arithmancy work been effecting your other marks?” Poppy asked, worried.  
  
“Vector did mention Hermione wasn't going quite as all-out as usual because she spends more of her time helping me,” Harry said as he tried to think through the past term and figure out where all of his time for Arithmancy had come from. “I haven't had Quidditch this year so that helped.” Then it hit him suddenly. He hadn't done anything to help the war effort since term started! Harry couldn't believe himself.  
  
 _How could I have been so irresponsible? I didn't even notice!_ he thought frantically. I have so much catching up to do over the hols.  
  
“Harry, calm down. What's wrong?” Poppy asked, sounding concerned.  
  
Harry realized he'd started to panic again and tried to concentrate on his breathing. “Sorry,” he gasped. “It's nothing.”  
  
Poppy was clearly unconvinced but she must have decided distraction was the better treatment at the moment rather than prodding at whatever had upset Harry.  
  
“I hear you and Ron have been at odds more than usual lately,” she said.  
  
Harry nodded. He didn't have to explain. Poppy would surely have heard about the swamp and the broomstick from McGonagall.  
  
“I don't understand what that boy was thinking. Minnie says he's still upset about the Tournament, but I don't see how someone could distrust their good friend that much to still be angry months later.”  
  
“He's stubborn,” Harry said, sounding less winded already. “And I think he's jealous of the time I've been spending with Hermione and not him. But it's not like he would have spent all that time in the library with us while we worked on Arithmancy. And he's not allowed to know why we had to spend time together over the summer without him.”  
  
“Ah. Such things do happen, I'm afraid,” Poppy said sadly. “Sometimes friends just grow apart.”  
  
“I don't think there's anything I can do,” Harry said. It wasn't like he hadn't tried to include Ron, back before Halloween and the Goblet of Fire. It was sad to lose Ron as a friend, but if he was honest, he'd known it was coming for a long time. Since he'd come back in time, really. He'd changed so much and Ron was the same kid he'd always been. Sighing, Harry changed the subject.  
  
“When you talked to Dumbledore about my broom last week, did he mention what he's going to do to me? I may have earned myself detention until I'm 40 from him.”  
  
Poppy winced. “That is how that particular conversation started, as a matter of fact. How much did you hear?”  
  
“I know I shouldn't have been listening at doors. I was looking for Vector and it was only a minute or two.”  
  
“Yes, the eavesdropping was in poor form, Harry,” she scolded. “It wasn't quite until you're 40, but...”  
  
“The rest of the year?” Harry ventured.  
  
“The Headmaster wanted me to discuss with you that your emotions could perhaps have been expressed in a way more appropriate to the situation. Of course, myself and Severus disagreed with him on the nature of 'the situation', as he put it.”  
  
“It wasn't fair what he did. I think I know a little bit of how Snape must have felt when Dumbledore took the Marauders' side,” Harry said bitterly.  
  
“The world isn't fair. That doesn't mean you are free to disrespect people in a position of authority over you without regard for the consequences,” Poppy lectured, but she continued more gently. “However, I'm actually pleased that you're expressing your emotions. You were having some problems with emotional numbness, weren't you?”  
  
Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “So when do they start?”  
  
“While much of that conversation was wasted breath, we did succeed in convincing the Headmaster that he should take into account the problems you've had lately. Between the attack last year and being entered in the Tournament this year, I think we have convinced him that you have a lot to be angry about and that it was not entirely misplaced. He could have done more to keep you safe.”  
  
Harry snorted. _Yeah, that could happen._  
  
“I believe you've avoided detention at this juncture, but please do not disrespect Professor Dumbledore again,” she said stiffly, unused to playing the disciplinarian to students.  
  
Harry frowned but nodded agreement. “You talk about me often then, you and the Headmaster?”  
  
“I hope you're not implying that I would break the law, even for the Headmaster. I am prohibited from revealing anything specific in relation to your condition, your treatment, or these sessions. He is understandably concerned and following your progress but he knows no more about any of this than Mr Filch or Professor Sinistra. He is always pleased to hear that I think you're doing well and though he sometimes asks specific questions, he understands why I may not be able to answer them and accepts it when I tell him to mind his own business.”  
  
Harry wouldn't meet her eyes.   
  
“Harry?” she prompted. When he still didn't react, she started to look really worried. “What is it, Harry?”  
  
Harry sighed. “I appreciate what you did, getting me out of trouble and... standing up for me, I guess, but I wish you didn't have to talk to him.”  
  
“You don't trust him,” she stated.  
  
“Of course not,” Harry snapped. “He's got plans for me. He needs me just well enough to finish off Voldemort and hopefully die trying so he - or whoever he leaves in charge - doesn't have to figure out what to do with me when I've done that.”  
  
“What?” Poppy gasped, shocked and utterly bewildered.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry said with a sigh. He didn't expect her to understand. She didn't have all the facts. Snape would agree though.  
  
“No, Harry, I'm not looking for an apology. I don't understand where this is coming from. Can you explain it to me, please?” she said cautiously.  
  
Harry hesitated and thought about trying to convince her it didn't matter, but he doubted she'd accept that now. _Should have kept my mouth shut,_ he thought. “Look, it's like this: there's no way he didn't know about Quirrell being possessed and he knew what was happening from the first petrification in my second year. He knew I couldn't have submitted my name to the tournament this year so he could have made it so I didn't have to compete, but he didn't. Three times isn't a coincidence. He thinks he's training me for another war and he acts like it's a foregone conclusion that I'll live long enough to fight that war for him, even though I was 11 when he set up those tests around the Stone to be perfect for me and my friends. I almost died then, and in the Chamber too. I'll accept that the dementors attacking me last year was an accident, but not the rest.”  
  
Poppy clearly wasn't seeing it.  
  
“I really think you're overreacting, Harry. Albus may have his own ideas about discipline and a bad habit of playing favorites, but he wouldn't risk the school and the students he's dedicated his life to like that. Our conversation was entirely within the bounds of his duties as Headmaster,” Poppy tried to reassure him but he was having none of it.  
  
“I am not overreacting! Dumbledore always has an agenda!” Harry protested angrily.  
  
“An agenda? Harry, I realize it might be hard to imagine when you only see him in his official capacity, but Harry, Dumbledore has plenty going on in his life outside of his job as your headmaster to keep him busy.”  
  
“He was keeping tabs on his weapon,” Harry said bitterly. “You don't know what he's like when it comes to me.”  
  
“This is the fear talking, Harry. You're just being paranoid,” Madam Pomfrey soothed.  
  
Harry leapt to his feet. “You think I'm mental. I'm not! I-”  
  
“That's not what I'm saying, Harry. I promise,” Madam Pomfrey interrupted, holding her hands up placatingly. “I am not dismissing your concerns. I want to hear them - I just can't understand.”  
  
“Is the fact that you don't believe me supposed to make me feel better?” Harry said, crossing his arms across his chest sullenly.  
  
“Of course not and I didn't mean it like that.”  
  
“Yes, you did,” Harry said. “You meant that paranoia and distrust are symptoms of whatever this thing is that you and Snape are treating me for. You meant that you don't know what I'm talking about so I must be overreacting. You meant that the Dumbledore I know can't be the same Dumbledore you know so I must be crazy.”  
  
“I went about this the wrong way,” she sighed. “I just mean that... that you're right and I don't see what you do in Dumbledore and maybe I did jump to conclusions and I would believe you- no... that maybe I would see it if you explained it to me. But equally, I need you to consider that it could be paranoia and distrust that aren't deserved and perhaps if you listen to what I'm saying about the Headmaster, then you'll change your mind... or at least then we'll meet somewhere in the middle.”  
  
“Forget it. I'll talk about it with Snape some other time,” Harry said dismissively.  
  
For a moment, Madam Pomfrey looked like she would insist they address this now, but then she changed her mind.  
  
“Does seeing Professor Snape help you?” Poppy asked. “I get the sense that you talk to him about very different things than you do with me.”  
  
“Well, yeah,” Harry said. “I guess part of it is that I don't worry what he'll think of me. I doubt anything I could tell him would make him think worse of me than he did this time last year, so there's nowhere to go but up, in a way.”  
  
“I'm glad he's helping,” Poppy said. “I had my concerns at first. I wasn't sure he would be able to get past the animosity, but he has and I'm glad. Do you think you'd like to see him more often? If his sessions are working for you, maybe you should see him twice a month instead of each of us once a month.”  
  
“No, the way it is works. I need both. I can talk to you about things I wouldn't talk to Snape about. There's no way I'd expect Snape to listen to me whinge about Ron or worry about Hermione not having time to put an extra six inches on her Arithmancy essays,” Harry said with a small smile.  
  
Poppy returned his smile and seemed to relax again and steered the conversation back to lighter topics.  
  
*****  
  
In the last days of term, Ron made himself scarce. Harry tried to find the right time to talk to him and the right things to say. He vacillated between wanting to reconcile with Ron and wanting to tear into him for his betrayal. As much as it meant to Harry that Ron was his first and best friend, Ron's behavior lately had really cut deep and, more than that, this betrayal didn't feel like the first time. But it was the first time from Ron's point of view - Harry had to remind himself of that repeatedly. The swamp prank had been cruel, but Harry was having trouble figuring out if his burning desire to just end their friendship and take Ron to task was really in perspective or if those other, ghostly betrayals from the past-now-forgot were making it feel worse than it was. Because it wasn't fair to hold Ron accountable for things he hadn't done yet, and indeed might never do.  
  
Up until the moment that Harry finally got the chance to talk to Ron, he honestly couldn't tell for sure what he would say. Ron was alone in their dormitory, packing his trunk the night before he was to go home on the train when Harry walked in. Part of Mr and Mrs Weasley's punishment for the destruction of Harry's broom was that Ron wasn't allowed to stay over the holidays and would therefore miss the Yule Ball. Ron looked up when Harry came in and scowled but didn't not stop packing.  
  
“I hope you're happy,” Ron said bitterly.  
  
Harry snapped. “I'm really not. Ron, I don't think you understand how angry I am about what you did. I was willing to be understanding about the Tournament even though, as my friend, I thought you had my back. But my broom - Ron, that was the only gift I'd ever had from my godfather and maybe it was just an expensive toy to you, but it was so much more to me - it was the memory of a dream of a better life with an adult that cared about me.”  
  
“Why do you think I chose it?” Ron said coldly. “You hurt me.”  
  
“And you wanted to hurt me back,” Harry concluded. “Well, you sure did that, Ron. You sure did that.”  
  
“Good,” Ron said, though his expression was uncomfortable rather than smug.  
  
Harry slammed his fist against his wardrobe. “You bastard! Do you even realize that you've done more to screw with me this year than Malfoy ever did? I get attacked by dementors and you want the gory details. I plan a holiday of my own and you act like I did it to spite you. A homicidal maniac curses a powerful magical artifact to get me into a deadly tournament and it's all about you. I get startled out of a nightmare and you see a chance to make a quick buck, nevermind you have to throw me over to do it. Did you stop to think what it would do to me if Wizarding Britain thought I was off my rocker? Did you for one minute consider the consequences? Of course not. Just like you didn't stop to think about the consequences when you decided to destroy my broom!”  
  
Ron smirked. “Consequences? What consequences?”  
  
Harry lunged, snarling, and for one glorious moment, he thought he would smash into Ron, slam a fist into his nose, bruise him, black his eye, make him hurt.  
  
“Avorsus!”  
  
Harry found himself suddenly sailing gently backwards through the air, not stopping despite his fight until he came to hover beside Professor McGonagall in the doorway.  
  
“Mr Weasley, you have just doubled your detentions when school resumes.”  
  
“He attacked me!” Ron protested, indignant.  
  
“I will deal with him after I have addressed your _disgraceful_ behavior and _abhorrent_ attitude of late.”  
  
“He-”  
  
“No, Mr Weasley: you. In just a few short years, you will leave this school and enter the adult world. You won't see Mr Potter every day anymore. The tensions you feel now are fleeting. But Wizarding Britain is small. Every day, you _will_ see someone who knows you now. While you are home with your family for the holidays, consider what you want them to remember.  
  
“Harry, you'll come with me,” she said.  
  
The spell holding him ended as Professor McGonagall walked briskly towards her office. Harry followed a little reluctantly.  
  
“The Weasley family is taking this seriously,” she said. “His parents understand the need for consequences and they're going to talk to him too.”  
  
Harry bit back the _But what about me?_ and told himself that it was good that whatever Ron was going through, he would be getting help. But he couldn't help the burn of jealousy because Ron had been a real bastard, but he still had family that would always stand by him, no matter what he'd done or who he turned out to be inside.


	27. Christmas Hols

 

 

 

 

The portkey deposited them in a moonlit wood. A well-worn track led from the site and wound off between the trees.

“Stay close,” Snape said as he set off along the track.

Harry followed closely on his heels and within seconds, the dark shapes of houses appeared through the trees. Under their feet, the dirt track turned to the smooth stone of old pavers, then, at the corner where the track met the street, to modern tarmac that told Harry muggles lived here.

Snape turned right at the end of the street and stepped up onto the narrow pavement. Harry almost missed the step — he was looking instead at the obelisk war memorial that suddenly loomed up out of the center of an old village square. Harry had only ever seen one in Remembrance Day programs on the telly --- Little Whinging, being a sprawling sixties subdivision, wasn’t old enough to have one. As they approached though, the air around it rippled and suddenly the obelisk dissolved, revealing itself to be an illusion, and a statue of a man, woman, and child replaced it.

Harry caught a flash of memory — of a statue of a centaur, house elf, and wizard coming to life and throwing themselves between him and a Killing Curse. He shook off the memory and followed Snape through the square.

They were almost across to the other side when Harry realized that the woman holding the child was his mother. He felt genuinely sick to his stomach at the realization that those were his parents and himself on that memorial.

He must have made a noise at his distress because Snape stopped and turned to look at him and, seeing how green in the face Harry now looked, quickly dug through his coat pocket and pulled out a vial of potion.

“Drink,” Snape ordered, uncapping it and handing it over.

Harry gulped the whole thing down in one swallow, too fast to risk tasting what was likely a nasty brew. “Sorry,” he said, handing the empty vial back. At least his stomach felt better though.

Snape pursed his lips, then whispered, “It’s about to get worse. From this side of the square, you’ll be able to see the house. There was an explosion when the spell backfired. It’s a ruin.”

Harry tensed. He’d prepared himself for visiting a gravesite, not a battlefield and certainly not the ruins of a country cottage where his parents might have raised him. But then it came into view, a short way down the street opposite.

“Do you want to see it?” Snape asked.

Harry nodded. He felt like the wreckage was drawing him in.

“This is what war looks like,” Harry said as they approached the cottage’s front gate. He threw a gesture back towards the memorial. “Not that.”

Beside him, Snape nodded but said, “I prefer the statue myself.”

“That statue is a lie,” Harry said. “A happy little family? If that’s how everyone remembers the war, it’s no wonder we’re doomed to repeat it.”

“To me, it represents what the war destroyed, Harry.”

“To you, maybe, but only because you knew. To everyone else, it’s _pretty_. That’s not how anyone should remember war.”

“This,” Snape began thoughtfully, “it’s an open wound. Wounds aren’t supposed to linger like that. A wound that refuses to heal is death waiting to happen. The statue… it isn’t about forgetting or misrepresenting. It’s like a scar — the wound as it looks when it’s healed over. It’s there to remember, not to continue the hurt.”

“It’s just wrong,” Harry protested.

“It’s natural,” Snape countered. “Stasis spells keep the cottage looking like this. Without them, time and nature would have it falling down, decaying in the elements, returning to the earth.”

“Time heals all things,” Harry quoted the proverb though he didn’t believe it.

“No, but it helps,” Snape said.

“If you say so,” Harry replied, disbelieving.

“I do,” Snape said. He nodded towards the square again. “The churchyard is back that way.”

The church and the graveyard were… normal, or at least what Harry expected a village church to be like. They walked through the gate and another illusion dissolved, revealing that the cemetery was larger. “What?”

“Hmm?” Snape hummed questioningly.

“Why all the illusions?”

“This is a mixed community. Muggles and wizards.”

“So they have to hide half a graveyard?”

Snape shrugged. “Most of the wizards here are purebloods. No birth records, no NHS records, no death records. No graves.”

For a moment, that struck Harry as odd, but since odd had gone hand in hand with being a wizard ever since a half-giant had shown up at a hut on a rock in the middle of a stormy sea and mostly failed to turn a little boy (admittedly a nasty boy, but still) into a pig because his father had called someone he didn’t know a mean name, Harry’s bafflement didn’t last long.

Snape led the way along the rows, straight to a pair that said Potter. There was a single stalk of white asphodel on Lily’s grave, frost-bitten and wilted, but still recognizable — as if it hadn’t been there for long. Harry had scarcely a second to hope that his parents’ graves weren’t some sort of tourist attraction before Snape reached into his coat and pulled out a fresh stem of asphodel. With a wave of his wand, the old one crumbled to dust. He kneeled in front of Lily’s headstone and placed the new one with great care. He stayed kneeling, head bent in solemn grief, for long enough that Harry began to fidget and shift from foot to foot, reluctant to interrupt but unsure what to do with himself while Snape was doing whatever it was he was doing.

At last, Snape stood and turned to Harry. “I’m going to stand over there,” he said, pointing a little distance away. “Talk to her, Harry. To both of them. I don’t care what you say — tell them about school, your Housemates, your friends, the play-by-play of the Quidditch World Cup — anything, but… something.”

“N-n-no, I---” Harry stammered, his uncertainty over what to do with himself reaching new levels of discomfort.

“Yes. Tell them how stupid it is that I’m making you do this, if you have to. But say something,” Snape insisted.

“It is stupid! I’d feel foolish. They’re not there! It’s just a grave. Just dirt. It’s not like they could hear it,” Harry said, spinning around and pacing agitatedly.

“You think you’ve met your parents’ ghosts, right? And they knew what you’d been doing, no matter when or where, because your mother told you she didn’t like it, right?” Snape countered.

Harry froze. Because right there, that was a problem. He honestly thought that talking to people’s graves was ridiculous. That talking to dead people at all — unless they were ghosts standing in front of you or shades called up by the Deathly Hallows — was foolish. But Snape was right; he did believe that his parents, when they’d returned as shades, had known things about his life that suggested they were watching. And if that was true, then… then it wasn’t stupid, talking to them here. Was it?

“Okay. Okay, I’ll do it,” Harry said.

Snape nodded and walked off towards the church, far enough to give Harry a little privacy but not so far that he left Harry’s sight.

Harry walked, slowly, ponderously, back to the foot of his parents’ graves. “So… Mum and Dad. How’s the afterlife treating you? Got a good view? I guess I should say sorry I haven’t visited before. I probably should have brought flowers — I guess I didn’t really think this through. I… I never really got a chance to know you so I don’t know…

“Sorry, I don’t really know how normal people do this. Am I supposed to pray to God for you? No, I guess not. Petunia certainly isn’t religious so if you were, well, sorry but I don’t know any prayers.

“Maybe I’m supposed to say ‘sorry, you died’ and ‘I miss you’? Well, yeah, I guess things would have been different if you’d lived but whether they’d have been better or worse, I don’t know. It’s not like I remember anything from when I was a baby.”

Harry stopped, frustrated, threw his head back and spun in place: “This is ridiculous.” But he forced himself to turn back around. “Alright. Listen. I know you don’t want to, but… well, I guess I can’t make you listen but I have to talk so… Snape says I should talk about school or Quidditch, but the thing is, you know more than you should already. You’re dead! And I am… done with the ring… and if I never see another boggart again, it will be too soon, but you know, that at least is perfectly normal.

“Dumbledore told me once that people could waste away just staring at their heart’s desire even though it wasn’t real — and you were it, you with me — well it turns out that maybe that wasn’t such a great desire because I really could destroy myself trying to please you when you’re not even here, I mean really here. And I can’t do that. It has to stop.

“You’re gone. You left me — at the mercy of the Dursleys… and Dumbledore,” he said, growing increasingly agitated. “So you know what? You get me like I am.”

He turned on his heels and strode along the row, towards Snape.

“Finished?” Snape asked. If he’d heard what Harry said, his tone betrayed nothing of what he thought of it.

Harry nodded. “You were right. It did help, talking to them. When does our portkey leave?”

Snape checked his watch. “Nearly ten minutes. We can take our time walking back to the woods.”

Harry nodded and together, they left.

“So, did you say goodbye?” Snape asked, tone again neutral.

“Mostly, I yelled,” Harry admitted sheepishly. “Sorry. I guess I had some things I needed to get off my chest.”

Snape shook his head. “Whatever you need.”

“Still,” Harry said. He felt like he ought to feel bad for it, but really he felt better than he had in a long time, nevermind that yelling at your parents’ grave wasn’t what you were supposed to do, was it? “Should I come back?”

Snape looked at him oddly. “If you want to.”

Harry shrugged. It wasn’t want, but… still, maybe the next time Snape came, he could come too. “How often do you visit? Every Christmas?”

“Once a week,” Snape said.

Snape continued walking, but Harry stopped short, caught by an intense mixture of horror, disbelief and anger. _Every week?!_ Harry couldn’t even imagine. She’d been dead for… 13 years. _Every week for 13 years, Snape walked past the irreverent statue, caught an unavoidable look at the macabre cottage with half the upper story charred and blown open to the sky, to walk to the graveyard to leave a single stem of asphodel on the grave of a woman who didn’t even deserve him._ Harry growled.

“Don’t dawdle, Potter!” Snape snapped over his shoulder.

Harry jogged to catch up, but was still scowling deeply as he did. “Seriously, every week?”

“Yes,” Snape said, looking everywhere but Harry — whether out of vigilance or avoidance, it was difficult to tell.

Harry opened his mouth to press the issue, then thought better of what would undoubtedly have come across as tactless.

They waited in the clearing in the wood, the portkey held between them, for only a few minutes, silent and deep in thought, the both of them.

  
_Maybe it’s nothing. It could be normal, right? What do I know about regular relationships, really?_ But Harry didn’t like it.

The portkey deposited them at the castle gates and the whole walk back up the hill to the castle, Harry’s mind raged. It wasn’t just the shouting at his parents’ graves that had done it either. It was really the whole weekly visits thing Snape had going. Harry couldn’t stand it. “Professor---,” Harry began.

Just as they reached the door, it opened and a house elf in Hogwarts livery was visible for a second before it disappeared.

They were scarcely inside the castle before Snape barked harshly, “Go, Potter,” not looking at Harry at all.

A portrait of an old witch tutted at him disapprovingly.

Snape stopped and transfigured his coat back into a cloak and removed it.

Harry opened his mouth to speak again, but Snape cut him off with a look.

“Please. I just want to be alone now,” he whispered for Harry’s ears only.

Harry took in the stiff lines of Snape’s back and shoulders, the grim lines of his drawn face, and he hesitated because Snape was this picture of misery and that in itself was so very unlike the man Harry knew. Had this really been happening all those years, right under his nose and he hadn’t noticed a thing? Once a week was 52 visits a year, for 13 years… well over 600 visits at this point. It wasn’t right and Harry felt that had to be said, but Snape was asking for time right now and Harry could give him that, for now, so he didn’t voice any of his concerns, didn’t press Snape to listen while Harry felt like talking when Snape so clearly did not. He just nodded and headed upstairs.

 

 

*****

“Alright, close your eyes,” Hermione said.

“I’m writing Christmas cards!” Harry whinged.

“It’ll only take a minute. C’mon. I have to wrap your present!” Hermione pleaded, prodding him in the arm and smiling endearingly.

Harry grinned back at her and put down his quill and closed his eyes obligingly.

There was rustling and the sound of the tape dispenser, some shuffling and a soft thump, then after a long minute, Hermione said, “Alright, you can open you eyes again.”

Harry smiled at her as he picked up his quill and finished the inscription to Remus Lupin, wherever he was living these days. It was a simple, _Hope you’re doing okay. Happy Christmas,_ and his signature. For a moment, the pain of losing his Remus came back with a fervor he didn’t really understand, which really just made it worse. The loneliest thing about his situation wasn’t not being able to talk to anyone about what he’d been through — it was not being able to remember why he’d loved each his friends as he had back then. It was feeling those feelings for people who would never be those friends again, not like that anyway. Some of them, perhaps not at all, though it often hurt to admit that.

Which was probably why, despite the grief Ron was causing him lately, he’d also written a card to the Weasley family. He could only hope it wouldn’t turn out to be the wrong thing to do.

He’d made one out to the Minister too because he’d had plenty leftover in the package he’d bought and it was good to keep that line of communication open.

Hermione had given him a disproving look when he’d signed the Minister’s card with a simple greeting and his best, most legible autograph but Harry, socially clueless about many things, was at least clear on the concept of Christmas Cards. He had spent years as the official stamp-licker for Petunia’s Christmas card list, forced to sit at her side for hours, sometimes days, as she complained her way through an enormous stack destined for neighbors she maligned at every turn but needed favor with to stay on the right side of local gossip, business associates of Vernon that she wanted to remember him to in case any large drill orders came up in the new year, teachers at Dudley’s school who had to be encouraged to think kindly of Dudley, and old school friends of hers and of Vernon who had married well or found themselves jobs that made them useful people to remain acquainted with. So he wasn’t going to take Hermione’s scowls to heart, or at least not about this.

They sorted out the presents that had to be posted from those that went under the House tree in the Common Room for a house elf to deliver on Christmas Eve night. A Hover Charm on the small mountain of parcels for the post got them all the way up to the Owlery where it took some time for him and Hermione to coax down enough owls from the rafters for all the parcels that needed mailing. Once they’d finished, Harry suggested a visit to the library.

Hermione looked at him oddly. “You do realize it’s Christmas holiday, right? I mean, obviously I’m not saying no because _I_ can always use more time in the library, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather be sitting by the Common Room fire drinking cocoa and roasting marshmallows or playing Neville in chess or starting a snowball fight with Cedric and Cho and their friends?”

“I have some things I want to look up,” Harry said defensively.

“Oh?” Hermione asked, interested.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m ready to share yet. I mean, it’s just all sort of wooly right now and I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for or why, but I think if I just start reading, it will get clearer as I go, you know?”

“Oh course. If you need help, let me know,” Hermione said encouragingly.

“Do you have something you can work on? If you’d rather drink cocoa or have a snowball fight, I can go to the library myself.”

“No, I’ll go. I have twelve inches of jots and margin notes from Arithmancy that I’ve been collecting and just haven’t had a chance to look into yet,” she said, going lightly pink and refusing to meet his eye, as if admitting to her usual curiosity was a shameful secret.

Harry just smiled and led the way. Once they’d picked up their bags from their dorms and got to the library, Hermione chose a table and Harry went right for the card catalog. It wasn’t his best skill, using the subject drawers but he opened drawers and flipped through cards and let his mind mull over both of his research problems. Whenever he found something likely-looking, he wrote down the call number and title, whether it was about whatever might be going on with Snape or about killing disembodied spirits. The latter he really hated himself a little for not having been working on it all year. When he got a long enough list, he noted where he’d stopped and wandered off into the stacks.

Harry returned to Hermione’s table with ten books. She stopped flipping through an illuminated manuscript to see what he’d brought and her brow furrowed.

“Woah. Encyclopedia of Emotional Magics, The Lives and Deaths of Great Ghosts, dementor biology, loyalty spells, a healer’s diagnostic handbook… okay, my curiosity is killing me — what do they have in common? What could you possibly be researching with all those?”

Harry laughed. “It’s two things I’m working on actually and I’ll let you know when I figure them both out enough that I can explain them in a way that makes sense.”

“Harry, you can’t dangle a puzzle in front of me and not tell me the answer!” she whinged. “C’mon, how do they fit together? At least tell me which books go together.”

Harry smiled fondly and quickly sorted his books into two piles and let her look them over while he set up his stationary set for note-taking.

“Dementory digestion goes with the lives of ghosts?” she muttered, trying to work it out. “Something about spirits. I wonder, have you looked into books on exorcisms? I’m sure I’ve seen at least one at some point.”

Harry nodded. “But the aren’t any in the main collections. They’re all in the Restricted Section.”

“Oh, yeah. That was second year, when I got the pass from Lockhart. I guess they can’t have Practical Exorcisms in each reach when the school is full of historic and friendly ghosts.”

“Yeah, if they did, Peeves would have been gone a long time ago.”

“And Binns,” Hermione added.

Harry nodded enthusiastically.

Hermione looked like she wanted to press him for more information but then she turned back to her notes and, after a moment, Harry picked up the first book and did the same.

Unfortunately, an hour and a half and two more trips to the card catalog later, Harry wasn’t much further. He’d read some of these books before for various reasons and he just wasn’t finding an answer to either question. He still had no weapons to use against Voldemort and too many possibilities for what might be wrong with Snape, including the very real possibility that nothing was wrong with him at all. He put the books he’d been using back on the nearest cart for reshelving and tried not to feel too frustrated with himself. He might still be able to find something if he could get a pass for the Restricted Section. It was also possible that he might have inherited a book or two on the subject along with the Black House.

“Hermione, I need to get away for a little while and think,” he said carefully, not wanting her to worry when he disappeared for an hour.

“Hmm. Okay,” she said, glancing up only briefly from what seemed to be an engaging Arithmancy treatise.

Harry gave her a smile and let her get on with it. What he had to do would be easier if he still had the Marauder’s Map, but the Invisibility Cloak alone would have to do. He returned to the Tower for it and then snuck out to the Hogsmeade tunnel on what was becoming a familiar trip to just outside the Hogwarts wards. He summoned one of his house elves.

It was Winky who appeared with a pop. “Master Harry is needing Winky to do something?”

“Yeah, Winky. Can you read?” Harry asked, though as soon as it left his mouth, he realized that could have been said more tactfully.

“Yes, Master Harry,” she replied, seemingly unoffended by the question.

“Excellent. Can you look through the books at the Black House and find me anything that might be relevant either to magical methods that could make a person love someone unnaturally or to ways to kill a disembodied spirit?”

“Yes, Master Harry. Should Winky send books by owl?”

“No. We’ll have to meet like this again. It might take awhile to go through all the books so let’s say we meet here on New Year’s Day, say, at 9am? It’s still Christmas hols then and most of the house will still be asleep then so I should be able to do then.”

“Winky thinks this is being fine. If Winky is needing more time, can Winky ask for it then?”

“Of course,” Harry assured her.

Winky nodded, her big ears flopping back and forth with the motion.

“Good. See you then. And thanks, Winky,” Harry said.

Winky grinned broadly at him and popped away without another word.

 

 

*****

Harry was startled out of sleep on Christmas morning by the feeling that someone was standing just inches away, watching him. He was clutching his wand beneath his pillow even before his eyes snapped open and when he saw the eyes just inches from his own, he scurried back so fast he almost fell out of bed.

“Ahh! Dobby, you can’t do that! I could have---,” he gasped.

“You okay, Harry?” Neville mumbled from the next bed. Dean and Seamus were also peering out from behind their bed curtains.

“Fine. Just Dobby,” Harry said.

“Dobby is sorry, sir!” squeaked Dobby anxiously, jumping backward with is long fingers over his mouth. “Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter ‘Happy Christams’ and bring him a present, sir! From Dobby and Winky and Kreacher, sir!”

“It’s okay, Dobby. Just say something, next time. Don’t just stand there,” Harry said as his heart returned to normal. He put his glasses on and accepted the package from Dobby. Harry pulled a small parcel with red paper from the small stack remaining as-yet undelivered on his bedside table and passed it to Dobby. “I got you something. It’s not much.”

He and Dobby opened their presents at the same time as Seamus dove out of his bed, gleefully shouting “Presents!” Soon everyone was opening their Christmas gifts.

Harry’s gift from Dobby turned out to be handmade socks — handmade by Dobby, the elf happily informed him. Harry smiled and thanked him. Harry’s gift to Dobby had been clothes too and Dobby was enthusiastically grateful for them. It was easy to see that Dobby loved clothing, probably for what it represented, so that was what Harry had got him. The gifts for Winky and Kreacher had been harder but he’d asked Neville’s advice and made the arrangements by owl — the elves ought to be waking up to them soon.

Harry’s own pile of presents surprised him — there were more than he would ever have expected. There were sweets from Hagrid, a book about technomancy from Hermione, a fresh journal from Madam Pomfrey, a homemade pair of mismatched socks from Dobby, Winky and Kreacher, and a jumper with a dragon on it from the Weasleys. The last had been a surprise, but a pleasant one. He hadn’t thought the Weasleys would remember him this year, or at least not fondly

Harry met up with Hermione in the common room and they went down to breakfast together, then spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower where everyone was enjoying their presents, before returning to the Great Hall for a holiday lunch of at least a hundred turkeys, Christmas puddings, and large piles of Cribbage’s Wizarding Crackers.

In the afternoon, they went outside to play in the snow — untouched except where paths had been cleared through the drifts for the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students to get up to the castle. Harry and Hermione were in the middle of a friendly snowball fight with Hannah Abbot and Susan Bones of Hufflepuff when all three girls suddenly froze and reached for their wands which were singing a little jingle from an Alarm Charm.

“Sorry, Harry.” Hermione explained, “Time to get ready for the ball.”

“You need three hours?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” Hannah said like it should have been obvious.

“It’s not that long. Parkinson’s been getting ready since noon,” Susan said self-consciously.

“Well, she’s got a lot more to do than you,” Harry reasoned.

“Harry!” Hermione scolded. She, Hannah and Susan were all blushing and Susan giggled shyly.

It took Harry a moment to realize why, then he blushed too but covered it up with a grin and a wink which earned him a teasing look from Hermione.

All three left Harry and headed towards the castle, brushing snow from their winter clothing as they went. Harry lingered, not sure what to do with himself alone, then decided to head inside as well. He didn’t need to get ready for the ball and he doubted Hermione would want him hanging around, but he could probably get some snacks to toast over the common room fire if he stopped by the kitchens. He was kind of hungry and there was no dinner that evening since there would be a late feast served at the Ball.

Just an hour before the ball, Harry and the other boys in his dorm, only recently returned and dripping with melting snow, finally went up to the dorm room, showered and shaved, combed their hair and put on their dress robes and went down to the common room. It was odd seeing everyone dressed up in bright colors and glittering jewelry compared to the dour and mostly-black school uniforms. Harry checked his watch. It would not do to keep Fleur waiting, but he was hoping to find Hermione before she went down. He hadn’t managed his bowtie. A few minutes later, Hermione did appear at the top of the staircase from the girls’ dormitories, a vision in blue robes Harry had yet to see, her hair styled artfully and her expression nervous but excited.

“Wow, Hermione,” Harry said, grinning at her. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, only blushing a little. She took it as a casual, friendly compliment, as it had been intended.

“Can you…?” Harry asked, holding the bowtie up and giving her a helpless look.

Hermione took his bowtie and, reciting instructions from a book under her breath and holding her head at an odd angle, she tied it for him much better than his previous attempts. “You’re lucky I read about this sort of thing,” she said.

“I am. Thank you,” Harry said. “We should go meet our dates.”

 

 

*****

From the moment the Ball started, Harry and Fleur were at the center of activity and attention. The champions opened the ball with the first dance and then he and Fleur stayed on to dance several more before Harry had to take a break while Fleur politely danced with a few other people. It was around that time that Harry realized Percy Weasley was there… when Percy took the seat beside him and jumped right into conversation as if it were nothing unusual or unexpected.

“Harry, goodness but you do look well. Mother will be glad to hear it. I hope you know we all feel terrible about Ronald’s behavior of late --- we wouldn’t want you to think he spoke for us all, that is. He’s always been pig-headed, our Ron, but we’ll sort him out for you, you needn’t worry about that.”

“What are you doing here Percy?” was all Harry could think of to say, but at least he’d managed to make it sound surprised rather than accusatory.

“I’ve been promoted,” Percy said proudly. “I’m Mr Crouch’s personal assistant, and I’m here representing him.”

“Why didn’t he come?” Harry asked, thinking that of all the Tournament duties the Ministry officials must have, a Hogwarts feast seemed among the least likely to want to fob off.

“I’m afraid to say Mr Crouch isn’t well, not well at all. Hasn’t been right since the World Cup. Hardly surprising — overwork.”

Harry endeavored to look interested even as he tuned Percy’s rambling, effusive praise for his boss out in favor of keeping an eye on the room. He liked the table he’d been given — the champions were towards the head of the room which, while it meant everyone could see him all the time, also ensured that he could see the whole room easily. Hermione was laughing at something Krum said — they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Snape was haunting the corner near the drinks table. McGonagall was seated at one of the staff tables, talking with Professor Sprout even as they kept a close watch on the students. Professor Dumbledore was dancing unselfconsciously up near the stage to a rather rowdy Hobgoblins cover.

Percy dragged his attention back though when he said, “As a matter of fact, Harry, you were mentioned just the other day. Mr Crouch had a meeting with Minister Fudge and some of the other department heads and the Minister was showing around the Christmas card you’d sent him. I understand it was muggle in origin. He was most intrigued.”

“Ah, yeah. I’m glad he liked it,” Harry replied for want of something better to say. He was spared more of Percy’s particular brand of gossip as Fleur reappeared at his side, having finished several dances with her friends.

“Harry, you must come dance with me,” she begged, taking him by the arm and tugging.

“It was nice talking to you, Percy, and congratulations on the promotion,” Harry said politely as he allowed himself to be led to the dance floor.

Harry and Fleur danced for several pop and rock songs, sometimes just the two of them and sometimes as part of an ever-shifting mob of their friends and acquaintances. Eventually though, they began to tire.

“This party is délicieuse but it is hot in here,” Fleur said as the band announced a slow dance next.

“Let’s get drinks and take a walk in the fresh air,” Harry suggested.

Fleur nodded appreciatively and led the way through the crowd towards the drinks table.

Harry poured two glasses of punch from one of the bowls and handed one to Fleur. He was surprised Snape wasn’t still hovering near here. Instead it seemed Mr. Filch had taken up his post to ensure no one, especially not a certain set of twins, decided to meddle with the drinks.

Harry let Fleur lead the way out the Entrance Hall doors and along one of the paths that wound around the Hogwarts grounds. It was a nice night, unseasonably warm, but comfortably refreshing. Several other students seemed to have the same idea and were also walking along the paths, sitting together on benches, and even snogging in the bushes. They walked past a Gryffindor/Hufflepuff seventh year couple that everyone at school knew had been together for three years sitting with her head on his shoulder and their hands clasped together, just looking at the stars. Harry wondered if that was what love looked like. Or maybe it was more like the sixth years Professor McGonagall was chasing out of the bushes back up the path. He didn’t know. Maybe…

“Fleur, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Harry,” Fleur replied, looking at him curiously and, perhaps, a bit warily.

“It may sound a bit strange, but its just something that’s bothering me,” Harry explained. “Do you think it makes sense for someone to visit the grave of someone they loved when they were in school even though she scorned him for petty reasons and it’s been 13 years since her death?”

Fleur looked confused by the question and for a moment, Harry wondered if he needed to rephrase with simpler English.

But then she smiled and said, “I think it is very romantic. He goes on her birthday? And maybe at Christmas sometimes also?”

“He goes every week. And she was mean to him. I mean, they were really good friends, and then she just threw him over.”

“Every week?” Fleur gasped, her expression transforming instantly from starry-eyed admiration of this mystery lover’s devotion to the same shock and disbelief Harry had felt when he’d learned of it.

Harry sighed. So he had been right to worry. “It’s weird, isn’t it.”

“I think so, yes.”

They walked on for awhile and talked about lighter things like the constellations, Scottish weather, funny things that happened in their classes, and, as they rounded the last turret in their long circuit of the castle, the beings that lived in the Forbidden Forest and how Harry had met the ones he knew. Harry was laughing and smiling and so was Fleur as they made it back to the front doors and, in the light flooding out of them, Fleur stopped them both.

“Thank you for a lovely night, Harry,” she said, and then she pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. It was over before Harry really registered what was happening, but he knew he saw a flash that meant their kiss was sure to be the cover of someone's newspaper in the morning, but, as Fleur disappeared down the path towards the Beauxbatons carriage, Harry was still grinning ear to ear and he couldn't find a reason to be upset about that.


End file.
